MEMOIRS 


OF  THE 


LOVES   OF  THE   POETS: 

BIOGRAPHICAL    SKETCHES 

OF 

WOMEN  CELEBRA  TED  IN  ANCIENT  AND  MODERN 
POETRY. 

BY   MRS.   JAMESON. 


"  Only  she  that  hath  as  great  a  share  in  virtue  as  in  beauty  deserve 
a  noble  love  to  serve  her,  and  a  true  poesie  to  speak  her." 

HABINGTON'S  Casfara. 


FROM    THE   LAST   LONDON   EDITION. 


: 


BOSTON 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN   AND 

Cljc  Ixtljcr^tBc  Press,  Cam&rttrge. 


ENFIN,  relevons-nous  sous  le  poids  de  1' existence;  n« 
donnons  pas  a  nos  injustes  ennemis,  a  nos  amis  ingrats, 
le  triomphe  d' avoir  abattu  nos  facultds  intellectuelles. 
Ils  reduisent  a  chercher  la  celebrite"  ceux  qui  se  seraient 
contends  des  affections:  eh  bien!  il  faut  1'atteindre. 
Ces  essais  ambitieux  ne  porteront  point  remede  aux 
poines  de  Tame;  mais  ils  honoreront  la  vie.  La  consacrer 
a  1'espoir  toujours  trompe"  du  bonheur,  c'es*  la  rendre 
encore  plus  infortune'e.  II  vaut  mieux  r^unir  tous  ses 
efforts  pour  descendre  avec  quelque  noblesse,  avec  quelque 
reputation,  la  route  qui  conduit  de  la  jeunesse  a  la  mort. 

HADAMK  DE  STAKU. 


THE  AUTHOR  TO  THE  READER. 

THESE  little  sketches  (they  can  pretend  to  no 
higher  title)  are  submitted  to  the  public  with  a  feel- 
ing of  timidity  almost  painful. 

They  are  absolutely  without  any  other  pretension 
than  that  of  exhibiting,  in  a  small  compass  and 
under  one  point  of  view,  many  anecdotes  of  biog- 
raphy and  criticism,  and  many  beautiful  poetical 
portraits,  scattered  through  a  variety  of  works, 
and  all  tending  to  illustrate  a  subject  in  itself  full 
of  interest, — the  influence  which  the  beauty  and 
virtue  of  women  have  exercised  dver  the  characters 
and  writings  of  men  of  genius.  But  little  praise 
or  reputation  attends  the  mere  compiler,  but  the 
pleasure  of  the  task  has  compensated  its  difficulty ; 
— "  song,  beauty,  youth,  love,  virtue,  joy,"  these 
"  flowers  of  Paradise,"  whose  growth  is  not  of  earth, 
were  all  around  me ;  I  had  but  to  gather  tnem  from 
the  intermingling  weQds  and  briars,  and  to  bind 
them  into  one  sparkling  wreath,  consecrated  to  the 
glory  of  women  and  the  gallantry  of  men. 

The  design  which  unfolded  itself  before  me,  as 
these  little  sketches  extended  gradually  from  a  few 
memoranda  into  a  volume,  is  not  completed  ;  much 
has  been  omitted,  much  suppressed.  If  I  have 
paused  mid-way  in  the  task,  it  is  not  for  want  of 


Vlll  PREFACE. 

materials,  which  offer  themselves  in  almost  exhaust- 
less  profusion — nor  from  want  of  interest  in  the 
subject— the  most  delightful  in  which  the  imagina- 
tion ever  revelled  !  but  because  I  desponded  over 
my  own  power  to  do  it  justice.  I  know,  I  feel  that 
it  required  more  extensive  knowledge  of  languages, 
more  matured  judgment,  more  critical  power,  more 
eloquence ; — only  Madame  de  Stael  could  have  ful- 
filled my  conception  of  the  style  in  which  it  ought 
to  have  been  treated.  It  was  enthusiasm,  not  pre- 
sumption, which  induced  me  to  attempt  it.  I  have 
touched  on  matters,  on  which  there  are  a  variety 
of  tastes  and  opinions,  and  lightly  passed  over  ques- 
tions on  which  there  are  volumes  of  grave  "  historic 
doubts ;"  but  I  have  ventured  on  no  discussion,  still 
less  on  any  decision.  I  have  been  satisfied  merely 
to  quote  my  authorities  ;  and  where  these  exhibited 
many  opposing  facts  and  opinions,  it  seemed  to  me 
that  there  was  far  more  propriety  and  much  less 
egotism  in  simply  expressing,  in  the  first  person, 
what  1  thought  and  felt,  than  in  asserting  absolutely 
that  a  thing  is  so,  or  is  said  to  be  so.  Every  one 
has  a  right  to  have  an  opinion,  and  deliver  it  with 
modesty ;  but  no  one  has  a  right  to  clothe  such  opin- 
ions in  general  assertions,  and  in  terms  which  seern 
to  insinuate  that  they  are  or  ought  to  be  universal. 
I  know  I  am  open  to  criticism  and  contradiction  on 
a  thousand  points ;  but  I  have  adhered  strictly  to 
what  appeared  to  me  the  truth,  and  examined  con- 
scientiously aE  the  sources  of  information  that  were 
open  to  me. 


PREFACE.  ix 

The  history  of  this  little  book,  were  it  worth 
revealing,  would  be  the  history,  in  miniature,  of 
most  human  undertakings :  it  was  begun  with  en- 
thusiasm ;  it  has  been  interrupted  by  intervals  of 
illness,  idleness,  or  more  serious  cares ;  it  has  been 
pursued  through  difficulties  so  great,  that  they  would 
perhaps  excuse  its  many  deficiencies ;  and  now  I 
see  its  conclusion  with  a  languor  almost  approach- 
ing to  despair; — at  least  with  a  feeling  which, 
while  it  renders  me  doubly  sensitive  to  criticism, 
and  apprehensive  of  failure,  has  rendered  me  al- 
most indifferent  to  success,  and  careless  of  praise. 

I  owe  four  beautiful  translations  from  the  Italian, 
(which  are  noticed  in  their  proper  places,)  to  the 
kindness  of  a  living  poet,  whose  justly  celebrated 
name,  were  I  allowed  to  mention  it,  would  be  sub- 
ject of  pride  to  myself,  and  double  the  value  of  this 
little  book.  I  have  no  other  assistance  of  any  kind 
to  acknowledge. 

*  *  #  #  # 

Will  it  be  thought  unfemmine  or  obtrusive,  if  I 
add  yet  a  few  words  ? 

I  think  it  due  to  truth  and  to  myself  to  seize  this 
opportunity  of  saying,  that  a  little  book  published 
some  years  ago,  and  now  perhaps  forgotten,  was 
not  written  for  publication,  nor  would  ever  have 
been  printed,  but  for  accidental  circumstances. 

That  the  title  under  which  it  appeared  was  not 
given  by  the  writer,  but  the  publisher,  who  at  the 
time  knew  nothing  of  the  author. 

And  that  several  false  dates,  and  unimporfe**»t 


X  PREFACE. 

circumstances  and  characters  were  interpolated,  to 
conceal,  if  possible,  the  real  purport  and  origin  of 
the  work.  Thus  the  intention  was  not  to  create 
an  illusion,  by  giving  to  fiction  the  appearance  of 
truth,  but,  in  fact,  to  give  to  truth  the  air  of  fiction. 
I  was  not  then  prepared  for  all  that  a  woman  must 
meet  and  endure,  who  once  suffers  herself  to  be 
betrayed  into  authorship.  She  may  repent  at 
leisure,  like  a  condemned  spirit ;  but  she  has  passed 
that  barrier  from  which  there  is  no  return. 

C'est  assez, — I  will  not  add  a  word  more,  lest  it 
should  be  said  that  I  have  only  disclaimed  the  title 
of  the  Ennuyde)  to  assume  that  of  the  Ennuye'use. 


CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  I.  Pag» 

A  Poet's  Love. ,     16 

CHAPTER  H. 
Loves  of  the  Classic  Poets 19 

CHAPTER  HE. 
The  Loves  of  the  Troubadours 24 

CHAPTER  IV. 
The  Loves  of  the  Troubadours  (continued) 87 

CHAPTER  V. 

Guido  Cavalcanti  and  Mandetta.— Cino  da  Pistoja 
and  Selvaggia 62 

CHAPTER  VI. 
Laura 69 

CHAPTER  VII. 
Lauraand  Petrarch  (continued) 74 

CHAPTER  Vni. 
Oanteand  Beatrice  Portinari 87 

CHAPTER  IX. 
Dante  and  Beatrice  !  continued) 102 


Xll  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  X.  Page 

Chaucer  and   Philippa  Pioard.  —  King    James  and 
Lady  Jane  Beaufort  ............................  107 

CHAPTER  XI. 
Lorenzo  de'  Medici  and  Lucretia  Donati  ............  128 

CHAPTER  XH. 
The  Fair  Geraldine  ...............................  144 


CHAPTER 
Ariosto,  Ginevra,  and  Alessandra  Strozzi  ............  164 

CHAPTER  XIV. 
Spenser's  Rosalind.    Spenser's  Elizabeth  ...........  1^9 

CHAPTER  XV. 
On  the  Love  of  Shakspeare  .......................  183 

CHAPTER  XVI. 
Sidney's  Stella  (Lady  Rich)  ......................  190 

CHAPTER  XVn. 
COURT  AND  AGB  OP  ELIZABETH. 

Drayton  —  Daniel  —  Drummond  —  Mary,  Queen  of 
Scots  —  Clement  —  Marot  and  Diana  de  Poictiers  — 
Ronsard's  Cassandre  —  Ronsard's  Marie  —  Ronsard's 
Helene  .........................................  200 

CHAPTER  XVHL 
Leonora  d'Este  ..................................  218 

CHAPTER  XIX. 
Milton  and  Leonora  Baroni  ........................  249 

CHAPTER  XX. 
Carew's  Celia.  —  Lucy  Sacheverel  ..................  263 

CHAPTER  XXT. 
Waller's  Sacharissa.  .  .  .  .  278 


CONTENTS.  Xlll 

CHAPTER  XXII.  Page 

Beauties  an  1  Poets  in  the  Reign  of  Charles  I. 285 

CHAPTER  XXIII. 
CONJUGAL  POETRY. 

U  vid  and  Perilla — Seneca's  Paulina — Sulpicia — Clo- 
tildo  de  Surville 291 

CHAPTER  XXIV. 

CONJUGAL  POETRY  (continued.) 

Vittoria  Colonna f03 

CHAPTER  XXV. 
CONJUGAL  POETRY  (continued.) 

Veronica  Gambara— Camilla  Valentini— Portia  Rota 
— Castiglione 318 

CHAPTER  XXVI. 

CONJUGAL  POETEY  (continued.) 

Doctor  Donne  and  his  Wife 327 

CHAPTER  XXVU. 

CONJUGAL  POETRY  (continued.) 

Habington's  Castara 838 

CHAPTER  XXVUL 

CONJUGAL  POETRY  (continued.) 

The  Two  Zappi 353 

CHAPTER  XTTX. 

CONJUGAL  POETRY  (continued.) 

C*ord  Lyttelton— Prince  Frederick— Doctor  Parnell. .  358 

CHAPTER  XXX. 

CONJUGAL  POETRY  (continued.) 

Klopstock  and  Meta 869 

CHAPTER  XXXI. 

CONJUGAL  POETRY  (continued.) 

Bonnie  Jean— Highland  Mary— Loves  of  Burns 88S 


!dV  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  XXXTT.  Pagi 

CONJUGAL  POETBY  (continued.) 

Monti  andhia  Wife 408 

CHAPTER  XXXTTT. 

POETS  AND  BEAUTIES  FROM  CHARLES  n.  TO  QUEEN  ANNS 
Cowley's  Eleanora— Maria  d'Este— Anne  Killegrew— - 
Lady  Hyde— Duchess  of  Queensbury— Granville's 
Mira— Prior's    Chloe— ...  414 

CHAPTER  XXXIV. 
Swift,  Stella  and  Vanessa 431 

CHAPTER  XXXV. 
Pope  and  Martha  Blount ; 465 

CHAPTER  XXXVI. 
Pope  and  Lady  M.  W.  Montagu 464 

CHAPTER  XXXVH. 
POETICAL  OLD  BACHELORS. 

Gray— Collins— Goldsmith— Shenstone— Thomson  — 
Hammond 478 

CHAPTER  XXXVKL 

FRENCH  POETS. 

Voltaire  and  Madame  du  Chatelet— Madame  de  Gou- 
verne" 484 

CHAPTER  yyyrg. 

FRENCH  POETRY  (continued.) 

Madame  d'Houdetot 490 

CONCLUSION. 
Heroines  of  Modern  Poetry 509 


LOVES    OF   THE   POETS. 


CHAPTER  I. 
A  POET'S  LOVE. 

Io  ti  cinsi  de  gloria,  efatta  ho  dea!— OUIDI. 

OP  all  the  heaven-bestowed  privileges  of  the 
poet,  the  highest,  the  dearest,  the  most  enviable,  is 
the  power  of  immortalizing  the  object  of  his  love ; 
of  dividing  with  her  his  amaranthine  wreath  of 
glory,  and  repaying  the  inspiration  caught  from  her 
eyes  with  a  crown  of  everlasting  fame.  It  is  not 
enough  that  in  his  imagination  he  has  deified  her — 
that  he  has  consecrated  his  faculties  to  her  honor- 
that  he  has  burned  his  heart  in  incense  upon  the 
altar  of  her  perfections ;  the  divinity,  thus  decked 
out  in  richest  and  loveliest  hues  he  places  on  high, 
and  calls  upon  all  ages  and  all  nations  to  bow  down 
before  her,  and  all  ages  and  all  nations  obey  I  wor- 
shipping the  beauty  thus  enshrined  in  imperish- 
able verse,  when  others,  perhaps  as  fair,  and  not 
less  worthy,  have  gone  down  unsung,  "  to  dust  and 


16  A  POET'S  LOVE. 

an  endless  darkness."  How  many  women,  who 
would  otherwise  have  stolen  through  the  shade  of 
domestic  life,  their  charms,  virtues,  and  affections 
buried  with  them,  have  become  objects  of  eternai 
interest  and  admiration,  because  their  memory  is 
linked  with  the  brightest  monuments  of  human 
genius  ?  While  many  a  high-born  dame,  who  once 
moved,  goddess-like,  upon  the  earth,  and  bestowed 
kingdoms  with  her  hand,  lives  a  mere  name  in 
some  musty  chronicle.  Though  her  love  was 
sought  by  princes,  though  with  her  dower  she 
might  have  enriched  an  emperor, — what  availed 
it? 

"  She  had  no  poet-and  she  died!  " 

And  how  have  women  repaid  this  gift  of  immor- 
tality ?  O  believe  it,  when  the  garland  was  such  as 
woman  is  proud  to  wear,  she  amply  and  deeply  re- 
warded him  who  placed  it  on  her  brow.  If  in  re- 
turn for  being  made  illustrious,  she  made  her  lover 
happy, — if  for  glory  she  gave  a  heart,  was  it  not  a 
rich  equivalent  ?  and  if  not, — if  the  lover  was  un- 
successful, still  the  poet  had  his  reward.  Whence 
came  the  generous  feelings,  the  high  imaginations, 
the  glorious  fancies,  the  heavenward  aspirations, 
which  raised  him  above  the  herd  of  vulgar  men 
• — but  from  the  ennobling  influence  of  her 
he  loved  ?  Through  her,  the  world  opened 
apon  him  with  a  diviner  beauty,  and  all  na- 
ture became  in  his  sight  but  a  transcript  of  the 
charms  of  his  mistress.  He  saw  her  eyes  in  the 
stars  of  heaven,  her  lips  in  the  half-blown  roso 


A  POET'S  LOVE.  17 

The  perfume  of  the  opening  flowers  was  but  her 
breath,  that  "  wafted  sweetness  round  about  the 
world:  "the  lily  was  "a  sweet  thief"  that  had 
stolen  its  purity  from  her  breast.  The  violet  was 
dipped  in  the  azure  of  her  veins ;  the  aurorean 
dews,  "  dropt  from  the  opening  eyelids  of  the 
mom,"  were  not  so  pure  as  her  tears ;  the  last  rose- 
tint  of  the  dying  day  was  not  so  bright  or  so  deli- 
cate as  her  cheek.  Hers  was  the  freshness  and 
bloom  of  Spring ;  she  consumed  him  to  languor  a* 
the  Summer  sun ;  she  was  kind  as  the  bounteous 
Autumn,  or  she  froze  him  with  her  wintry  disdain. 
There  was  nothing  in  the  wonders,  the  splendors, 
or  the  treasures  of  the  created  universe, — in 
heaven  or  in  earth, — in  the  seasons  or  their  change, 
that  did  not  borrow  from  her  some  charm,  some 
glory  beyond  its  own.  Was  it  not  just  that  the 
beauty  she  dispensed  should  be  consecrated  to  her 
adornment,  and  that  the  inspiration  she  bestowed 
should  be  repaid  to  her  in  fame  ? 

For  what  of  thee  thy  poet  doth  invent, 
He  robs  thee  of,  and  pays  it  thee  again. 
He  lends  thee  virtue,  and  he  stole  that  word 
From  thy  behaviour;  beauty  doth  he  give, 
But  found  it  in  thy  cheek ;  he  can  afford 
No  praise  to  thee  but  what  in  thee  doth  live. 
Then  thank  him  not  for  that  which  he  doth  say, 
Since  what  he  owes  thee,  thou  thyself  dost  pay  ! 

SHAKSPEARE'S  SONNETS. 

The  theory,  then,  which  I  wish  to  illustrate,  as 
far  as  my  limited  powers  permit,  is  this ;  that  where 


18  A  POET'S  LOVE. 

a  woman  has  been  exalted  above  the  rest  of  hef 
sex  by  the  talents  of  a  lover,  and  consigned  to  en- 
during fame  and  perpetuity  of  praise,  the  passion 
was  real,  and  was  merited  ;  that  no  deep  or  lasting 
interest  was  ever  founded  in  fancy  or  in  fiction ; 
that  truth,  in  short,  is  the  basis  of  all  excellence  in 
amatory  poetry,  as  in  every  thing  else  ;  for  where 
truth  is,  there  is  good  of  some  sort,  and  whero 
there  is  truth  and  good,  there  must  be  beauty, 
there  must  be  durability  of  fame.  Truth  is  the 
golden  chain  which  links  the  terrestrial  with  the 
celestial,  which  sets  the  seal  of  heaven  on  the 
things  of  this  earth,  and  stamps  them  to  immortal- 
ity. Poets  have  risen  up  and  been  the  mere  fash- 
ion of  a  day,  and  have  set  up  idols  which  have  been 
the  idols  of  a  day :  if  the  worship  be  out  of  date 
and  the  idols  cast  down,  it  is  because  these  adorers 
wanted  sincerity  of  purpose  and  feeling ;  their 
raptures  were  feigned ;  their  incense  was  bought 
or  adulterate.  In  the  brain  or  in  the  fancy,  one 
beauty  may  eclipse  another — one  coquette  may 
drive  out  another,  and,  tricked  off  in  airy  verse, 
they  float  away  unregarded  like  morning  vapors, 
which  the  beam  of  genius  has  tinged  with  a  tran- 
sient brightness  ;  but  let  the  heart  once  be  touched, 
and  it  is  not  only  wakened  but  inspired  ;  the  lover 
kindled  into  the  poet,  presents  to  her  he  loves 
his  cup  of  ambrosial  praise  :  she  tastes — and  the 
woman  is  transmuted  into  a  divinity.  When  thp 
Grecian  sculptor  carved  out  his  deities  in  marble, 
vid  left  us  wondrous  and  godlike  shapes,  imper- 


CLASSIC   POETS.  1& 

Donations  of  ideal  grace  unapproachable  by  modtm 
skill,  was  it  through  mere  mechanical  superiority  ? 
No  ; — it  was  the  spirit  of  faith  within,  which  shad- 
owed to  his  imagination  what  he  would  represent. 
In  the  same  manner,  no  woman  has  ever  been  truly, 
lastingly  deified  in  poetry,  but  in  the  spirit  of  truth 
and  of  love ! 


CHAPTER 

LOVES  OF  THE  CLASSIC  POETb. 

I  AM  not  sufficiently  an  antiquarian  or  scholar 
to  trace  the  muses  "  upward  to  their  spring,"  nei- 
ther is  there  occasion  to  seek  out  first  examples  of 
poetical  loves  in  the  days  of  fables  and  of  demi- 
gods; or  in  those  pastoral  ages  when  shepherds 
were  kings  and  poets :  the  loves  of  Orpheus  and 
Eurydice  are  a  little  too  shadowy,  and  those  of  the 
royal  Solomon  rather  too  mixed  and  too  mystical 
for  our  purpose. — To  descend  then  at  once  to  the 
classical  ages  of  antiquity. 

It  must  be  allowed,  that  as  far  as  women  are  con- 
cerned, we  have  not  much  reason  to  regard  then? 
with  reverence.  The  fragments  of  the  amatory 
poetry  of  the  Greeks,  which  have  been  preserved 
to  our  times,  show  too  plainly  in  what  light  we  were 
then  regarded ;  and  graceful  and  exquisite  aa 


20  LOVES    OF    THfi 

many  of  them  are,  they  bear  about  them  the  taint 
of  degraded  morals  and  manners,  and  are  utterly 
destitute  of  that  exalted  sentiment  of  respect  and 
tenderness  for  woman,  either  individually  or  as  a 
sex,  which  alone  can  give  them  value  in  our  eyes. 

I  must  leave  it  then  to  learned  commentators  to 
explore  and  elucidate  the  loves  of  Sappho  and  An- 
acreon.  To  us  unlearned  women  they  shine  out 
through  the  long  lapse  of  ages,  bright  names,  and 
little  else ;  a  kind  of  half-real,  half-ideal  impersona- 
tions of  love  and  song ;  the  one  enveloped  in  "  a 
fair  luminous  cloud,"  the  other  "  veiled  in  shadow- 
ing roses  ; "  and  thus  veiled  and  thus  shadowed,  by 
all  accounts,  they  had  better  remain. 

The  same  remark,  with  the  same  reservation, 
applies  to  the  Latin  poets.  They  wrote  beautiful 
verses,  admirable  for  their  harmony,  elegance,  and 
perspicuity  of  expression  ;  and  are  studied  as  mod- 
els of  stvle  in  a  language,  the  knowledge  of  which, 
as  far  as  these  poets  are  concerned,  were  best  con- 
fined to  the  other  sex.  They  lived  in  a  corrupted 
age,  and  their  pages  are  deeply  stained  with  its 
licentiousness ;  they  inspire  no  sympathy  for  their 
love,  no  interest,  no  respect  for  the  objects  of  it. 
How,  indeed,  should  that  be  possible,  when  their  mis- 
tresses, even  according  to  the  lover's  painting,  were 
&11  either  perfectly  insipid,  or  utterly  abandoned 
and  odious  ?  *  Ovid,  he  who  has  revealed  to  raor- 

*I  need  scarcely  observe,  that  the  following  sketch  of  tne  lyr- 
ical poets  of  llonio  is  abridged  from  the  analysis  of  their  works, 
in  Giugu«;ue'y  Hist  >ire  Literaire,  vol.  iii. 


CLASSIC   POETS  21 

ral  ears  "  all  the  soft  scandal  of  the  laughing  sky," 
and  whose  gallantry  has  become  proverbial,  repre- 
sents himself  as  so  incensed  by  the  public  and 
shameless  infidelities  of  his  Corinna,  that  he  treats 
her  with  the  unmanly  brutality  of  some  street  ruffi« 
an ; — in  plain  language,  he  beats  her.  They  are 
then  reconciled,  and  again  there  are  quarrels, 
coarse  reproaches,  and  mutual  blows.  At  length 
the  lady,  as  might  be  expected  from  such  tuition, 
becoming  more  and  more  abandoned,  this  delicate 
and  poetical  lover  requests,  as  a  last  favor,  that  she 
will,  for  the  future,  take  some  trouble  to  deceive 
him  more  effectually ;  and  the  fair  one,  can  she  do 
less  ?  kindly  consents  ! 

Cynthia,  the  mistress  of  Propertius,  gets  tipsy, 
overturns  the  supper  table,  and  throws  the  cups  at 
her  lover's  head  ;  he  is  delighted  with  her  playful- 
ness :  she  leaves  him,  to  follow  the  camp  with  a 
soldier ;  he  weeps  and  laments :  she  returns  to  him 
again,  and  he  is  enchanted  with  her  amiable  con- 
descension. Her  excesses  are  such,  that  he  is 
reduced  to  blush  for  her  and  for  himself ;  and  he 
confesses  that  he  is  become,  for  her  sake,  the  laugh- 
ing stock  of  all  Rome.  Cynthia  is  the  only  one  of 
these  classical  loves  who  seems  to  have  possessed 
any  mental  accomplishments.  The  poet  praises, 
incidentally,  her 'talents  for  music  and  poetry  ;  but 
not  as  if  they  added  to  her  charms  or  enhanced  her 
value  in  his  estimation.  The  Lesbia*  of  Catullus 

*  Clodia,  the  wife  of  Quintva  Metellus  Celer. 


22  LOfES    OF    THE 

whose  eyes  were  red  with  weeping  the  loss  cf  hei 
favorite  sparrow,  crowned  a  life  of  the  most  flagi- 
tious excesses  by  poisoning  her  husband.  Of  the 
various  ladies  celebrated  by  Horace  and  Tibullus, 
it  would  really  be  difficult  to  discover  which  was 
most  worthless,  venal,  and  profligate.  These  were 
the  refined  loves  of  the  classic  poets. 

**.*** 

The  passion  they  celebrated  never  seems  to  have 
inspired  one  ennobling  or  generous  sentiment,  nor 
to  have  lifted  them  for  one  moment  above  the 
grossest  selfishness.  They  had  no  scruple  in  ex- 
hibiting their  mistresses  to  our  eyes,  as  doubtless 
they  appeared  in  their  own,  degraded  by  every 
vice,  and  in  every  sense  contemptible ;  beings,  not 
only  beyond  the  pale  of  our  sympathy,  but  of  our 
toleration.  Throughout  their  works,  virtue  appears 
a  mere  jest :  Love  stripped  of  his  divinity,  even  by 
those  who  first  deified  him,  is  what  we  disdain  to 
call  by  that  name ;  sentiment,  as  we  now  understand 
the  word,  — that  is,  the  union  of  fervent  love  with 
reverence  and  delicacy  towards  its  object, — a 
thing  unknown  and  unheard  of, — and  all  is  "  of  the 
earth,  earthy." 

«***•* 

It  is  for  women  I  write ;  the  fair,  pure-hearted, 
delicate-minded,  and  unclassical  "reader  will  recol- 
lect that  I  do  not  presume  to  speak  of  these  poeta 
critically,  being  neither  critic  nor  scholar;  but 
merely  with  a  reference  to  my  subject,  and  with  a 
reference  to  my  sex.  As  monuments  of  the  Ian- 


CLASSIC   POETS.  23 

guage  and  literature  of  a  great  and  polished  people, 
rich  with  a  thousand  beauties  of  thought  and  of 
style,  doubtless  they  have  their  value  and  their 
merit ;  but  as  monuments  also  of  a  state  of  morals 
inconceivably  gross  and  corrupt ;  of  the  condition 
of  women  degraded  by  their  own  vices,  the  vices 
and  tyranny  of  the  other  sex,  and  the  prevalence 
of  the  Epicurean  philosophy,  the  tendency  of 
which,  (however  disguised  by  rhetoric,)  was  ever 
to  lower  the  tone  of  the  mind  ;  considered  in  this 
point  of  view,  they  might  as  well  have  all  burned 
together  in  that  vast  bonfire  of  love-poetry  which 
the  Doctors  of  the  Church  raised  at  Constanti- 
nople : — what  a  flame  it  must  have  made !  * 

*  "  J'ai  ou'i  dire  dans  mon  enfance  &  Demetrius  Chalcondyle, 
hjmme  tres  instruit  de  tout  ce  qui  regarde  la  Grece,  qui  les 
Pretres  avaient  eu  assez  d'influence  sur  les  Empereurs  de  Con- 
stantinople, pour  les  engager  a.  braler  les  ouvrages  de  nleusieurs 
anciens  poetes  Grecs,  et  en  particulier  de  ceux  qui  parlaient  des 
amours,  &c.  *  *  *  Ces  pretres,  sans  doute,  montrerent  une  mal- 
veillance  honteuse  envers  les  anciens  poetes;  mais  Us  donnerent 
une  grande  preuve  d'integrite,  de  probite,  et  de  religion." 

ALCYONIUS. 

This  sentiment  is  put  into  the  mouth  of  Leo  X.  at  a  time  when 
the  mania  of  classical  learning  was  at  its  height.— See  Rosco*, 
(Leo  X.,)  and  Ginguene. 


24  THE   LOVES   OF 

CHAPTER  III. 

THE  LOVES   OF   THE   TROUBADOURS. 

Gente,  che  d'amor  givan  ragionando. — PETBARCA. 

THE  irruptions  of  the  northern  nations,  among 
whom  our  sex  was  far  better  appreciated  than 
among  the  polished  Greeks  and  Romans ;  the  risa 
of  Christianity,  and  the  institution  of  chivalry,  b) 
changing  the  moral  condition  of  women,  gave  also 
a  totally  different  character  to  the  homage  addressed 
to  them.  It  was  in  the  ages  called  gothic  and  bar- 
barous,— in  that  era  of  high  feelings  and  fierce 
passions, — of  love,  war,  and  wild  adventure,  that 
the  sex  began  to  take  their  true  station  in  society. 
From  the  midst  of  ignorance,  superstition,  and 
ferocity,  sprung  up  that  enthusiasm,  that  exaggera- 
tion of  sentiment,  that  serious,  passionate,  and 
imaginative  adoration  of  women,  which  has  since, 
indeed,  degenerated  into  mere  gallantry,  but  was 
the  very  fountain  of  all  that  is  most  elevated  and 
elegant  in  modern  poetry,  and  most  graceful  and 
refined  in  modern  manners. 

The  amatory  poetry  of  Provence  had  the  same 
source  with  the  national  poetry  of  Spain;  both 
were  derived  from  the  Arabians.  To  them  we 
trace  not  only  the  use  of  rhyme,  and  the  various 
forms  of  stanzas  employed  by  the  early  lyric  poets, 


THE    TROUBADOURS.  25 

out  b)  a  strange  revolution,  it  was  fiom  the  East, 
where  women  are  now  held  in  seclusion,  as  mere 
soulless  slaves  of  the  passions  and  caprices  of  their 
masters,  that  the  sentimental  devotion  paid  to  our 
sex  in  the  chivalrous  ages  was  derived.*  The 
poetry  of  the  Troubadours  kept  alive  and  enhanced 
the  tone  of  feeling  on  which  it  was  founded ;  it  was 
cause  and  effect  reacting  on  each  other;  and 
though  their  songs  exist  only  in  the  collections  of 
the  antiquarian,  and  the  very  language  in  which 
they  wrote  has  passed  away,  and  may  be  accounted 
dead, — so  is  not  the  spirit  they  left  behind:  as  the 
founders  of  a  new  school  of  amatory  poetry,  we 
are  under  obligations  to  their  memory,  which  throw 
a  strong  interest  around  their  personal  adventures, 
and  the  women  they  celebrated. 

The  tenderness  of  feeling  and  delicacy  of  ex- 
pression in  some  of  these  old  Provencal  poets,  are 
the  more  touching,  when  we  recollect  that  the 
writers  were  sometimes  kings  and  princes,  and 
often  knights  and  warriors,  famed  for  their  hardi- 
hood and  exploits.  William,  Count  of  Poitou,  our 
Richard  the  First,  two  Kings  of  Arragon,  a  King 
of  Sicily,  the  Dauphin  of  Auvergne,  the  Count  de 
Foix,  and  a  Prince  of  Orange,  were  professors  of 
the  "  gaye  science."  Thibault,f  Count  of  Prov- 


*  Sismondi— Literature  du  Midi. 

f-  Thibault  fut  Roi  galant  etvaloureux, 

Ses  hauts  faits  et  son  rangn'ont  rien  fait  pour  sa  gloire; 
Mais  il  fat  chansonnier — et  ses  couplets  heureux. 

Nous  ont  conserve  sa  memoire. — ANTH.  DE  MONBT 


26  THE    LOVES    OF 

ence  and  King  of  Navarre,  was  another  of  these 
royal  and  chivalrous  Troubadours,  and  his  lais  and 
his  virelais  were  generally  devoted  to  the  praises 
of  Blanche  of  Castile,  the  mother  of  Louis  the 
Ninth — the  same  Blanche  whom  Shakspeare  Las 
introduced  into  King  John,  and  decked  out  in 
panegyric  far  transcending  all  that  her  favored 
poet  and  lover  could  have  offered  at  her  feet.* 
Thibault  did,  however,  surpass  all  his  contempora- 
ries in  refinement  of  style :  he  usually  concludes 
his  chansons  with  an  envoi,  or  address,  to  the 
Virgin,  worded  with  such  equivocal  ingenuity,  that 
it  is  equally  applicable  to  the  Queen  of  Heaven, 
or  to  the  queen  of  his  earthly  thoughts, — "  La 
Blanche  couvonn£e."  There  is  much  simplicity 
and  elegance  in  the  following  little  song,  in  whicL 
the  French  has  been  modernized. 

Las !  si  j' avals  pouvoir  d'oubller 

Sa  beaut6, — son  bien  dire, 
Et  son  tres  doux  regarder 

Finirait  mon  martyre ! 

Mais  las!  mon  coeur  je  n'en  puis  oter; 

Et  grand  affolage 

M'est  d'espdrer 

Mais  tel  servage 

Donne  courage 

A  tout  endurer. 

*  Tf  lusty  Lore  should  go  in  quest  of  beauty, 
Where  should  he  find  it  fairer  than  in  Blanch*? 
If  zealous  Love  should  go  in  search  of  virtue, 
Where  should  he  find  it  purer  than  in  Blanche? 
If  Love,  ambi  ious,  sought  a  match  of  birth, 
Whose  veins  bound  richer  blood  than  Lady  Blanche9 


THE    TROUBADOURS.  27 

Et  puis  comment  oublier 

Sa  beaute",  son  bien  dire, 
Et  son  tres  doux  regarder? 

Mieux  aime  mon  martyre?  " 

Princesses  and  ladies  of  rank  entered  the  hste 
of  poesy,  and  vanquished,  on  almost  every  occasion, 
the  Troubadours  of  the  other  sex.  For  instance, 
that  Countess  of  Champagne,  who  presided  with 
such  eclat  in  one  of  the  courts  of  love  ;  Beatrice, 
Countess  of  Provence,  the  mother  of  four  queens, 
among  whom  was  Berengaria  of  England ;  Clara 
d'Anduse,  one  of  whose  songs  is  translated  by 
Sismondi ;  a  certain  Dame  Castellosa,  who  in  a 
pathetic  remonstrance  to  some  ungrateful  lover, 
assures  him  that  if  he  forsakes  her  for  another, 
and  leaves  her  to  die,  he  will  commit  a  heinous  sin 
before  the  face  of  God  and  man  ;  that  charming 
Comtesse  de  Die,  of  whom  more  presently,  and 
others  innumerable,  "  tout  hommes  que  femmes,  la 
pluspart  gentilshommes  et  Seigneurs  de  Places, 
amoreux  des  Roynes,  Imperatrices,  Duchesses, 
Marquises,  Comtesses,  et  gentils-femmes ;  desquelles 
les  maris  s'estimaient  grandement  heureux  quand 
nos  poetes  leurs  addressaient  quelque  chant  nou- 
veau  et  notre  langue  Provencal."  The  said  poetg 
being  rewarded  by  these  debonnaire  husbands  with 
rich  dresses,  horses,  armor,  and  gold  :*  and  by  the 
ladies  with  praise,  thanks,  courteous  words,  and 

«  La  plus  honourable  recompence  qu'on  pouvait  faire  aux  dita 
poetcs,  etait  qu'on  leur  fournissait  de  draps,  chevaux,  armure,  el 
urgent. 


58  THE   LOVES    OF 

sweet  smiles,  ami  very  often,  "  altra  cosa  piu  cara." 
The  biography  of  these  Troubadours  generally 
commences  with  the  same  phrase — Such  a  one 
was  "  gentilhomrne  et  chevalier,"  and  was  "  pris 
d'amour  "  for  such  a  lady,  always  named,  who  was 
the  wife  of  such  a  lord,  and  in  whose  honor  and 
praise  he  composed  "  maintes  belles  et  doctes 
chansons."  In  these  "  chansons," — for  all  the  ama- 
tory poetry  of  those  times  was  sung  to  music, — we 
have  love  and  romantic  adventure  oddly  enough 
mixed  up  with  piety  and  devotion,  such  as  were 
the  mode  in  an  age  when  religion  ruled  the  imagi- 
nation and  the  opinions  of  men,  without  in  any 
degree  restraining  the  passions  or  influencing  the 
conduct.  One  Troubadour  tells  us,  that  when  he 
beholds  the  face  of  his  mistress,  he  crosses  himself 
with  delight  and  gratitude ;  another  pathetically 
entreats  a  priest  to  dispense  him  from  his  vows  of 
love  to  a  certain  lady,  whom  he  loved  no  longer  ; 
the  lady  being  the  wife  of  another,  one  would 
imagine  that  the  dispensation  should  rather  have 
been  required  in  the  first  instance.  Arnaldo  de 
Daniel,  unable  to  soften  the  obdurate  heart  of  his 
mistress,  performs  penance,  and  celebrates  six  (or 
as  some  say,  a  thousand)  masses  a  day,  "  en  priant 
Dieu  de  pouvoir  acquerier  la  grace  de  sa  dame," 
and  burns  lamps  before  the  Virgin,  and  consecrates 
tapers  for  the  same  purpose :  the  lady  with  whom 
he  was  thus  piously  in  love,  was  Cyberna,  the  wife 
of  Guillaume  de  Bouille.  This  was  something  like 
the  incantations  and  sacrifices  of  the  classic  poeta 


THE    1ROUBADOURS.  2& 

who  familiarly  mixed  up  their  mythology  with  their 
amours  ;  but  in  a  spirit  as  diffeient  as  the  allegori- 
cal cupid  of  these  chivalrous  poets  is  from  the 
winged  and  wanton  deity  of  the  Greeks  and  Ro- 
mans. Pierre  Vidal  sees  a  vision  of  Love,  whom 
he  describes  as  a  young  knight,  fair  and  fresh  as 
the  day,  crowned  with  a  wreath  of  flowers  instead 
of  a  helmet;  and  mounted  on  a  palfrey  as  white 
as  snow,  with  a  saddle  of  jasper,  and  spurs  of 
chalcedony ;  his  squires  and  attendants  are  Mercy, 
Pudeur,  and  Loyaute.  Sir  Cupid  on  horseback, 
with  his  saddle  and  his  spurs,  attended  by  Gentle- 
ness, Modesty,  and  Good  Faith,  is  a  novel  divinity. 
— Thus,  among  the  Greeks,  Love  was  attended  by 
the  Graces,  and  among  the  Troubadours  by  the 
Virtues.  In  the  same  spirit  of  allegory,  but  touched 
with  a  more  classic  elegance,  we  have  Petrarch's 
Cupid,  driving  his  fiery  car  in  triumph,  followed  by 
a  shadowy  host  of  captives  to  his  power, — the 
heroes  who  had  confessed  and  the  poets  who  had 
Bung  his  might. 

Vidi  un  vittorioso  e  sommo  duce, 

Pur  com'  un  di  color  ch'  in  Campidoglio 

Trlonfai  carro  a  gran  gloria  conduce. 

***** 
Quattro  destrier  via  piu  che  neve  bianchi : 
Sopr'  un  carro  di  foco  nn  garzon  crudo 
Con  arco  in  mano,  e  con  saette  a'  fianchi. 

And  yet  more  finished  is  Spenser's  "  Masque  of 
Cupid,"  in  the  third  book  of  the  Fairy  Queen 


SO  THE   LOVES    OF 

where  Love,  as  in  the  antique  gem,  is  mounted  on 
a  lion,  preceded  by  minstrels,  carolling 

A  lay  of  love's  delight  with  sweet  concent, 

attended  by  Fancy,  Desire,  Hope,  Fear,  and  Doubt ; 
ttnd  followed  by  Care,  Repentance,  Shame,  Strife, 
Sorrow,  &c. — The  vivid  colors  in  which  these  im- 
aginary personages  are  depicted,  the  image  of  the 
god  "  uprearing  himself,"  and  looking  round  with 
disdain  upon  the  troop  of  victims  and  slaves  who 
surround  him,  the  rattling  of  his  darts,  as  he  shakes 
them  in  defiance  and  in  triumph,  and  "  claps  on 
nigh  his  colored  wings  twain,"  forms  altogether  a 
most  finished  and  gorgeous  picture ;  such  as  Ru- 
bens should  have  painted,  as  far  as  his  pencil,  rain- 
bow dipt,  could  have  reflected  the  animated  pageant 
«o  the  eye. 

The  extravagance  of  passion  and  boundless  de- 
votion to  the  fair  sex,  which  the  Troubadours  sang 
in  their  lays,  they  not  unfrequently  illustrated  by 
their  actions ;  and  while  the  knowledge  of  the 
first  is  confined  to  a  few  antiquarians,  the  latter 
still  survive  in  the  history  and  the  traditions  of 
their  province.  One  of  these  (Guillaume  de  la 
Tour)  having  lost  the  object  of  his  love,  undei*- 
went,  during  a  whole  year,  the  most  cruel  and 
unheard-of  penances,  in  the  hope  that  Heaven 
might  be  won  to  perform  a  miracle  in  his  favor,  and 
restore  her  to  his  arms  ;  at  length  he  died  broken- 
liearted  on  her  tomb.*  Another,f  beloved  by  a 

*  Millot,  vol.  ii.  p.  148.  t  Richard  de  Barbeeiau. 


THE    TROUBADOURS.  31 

certain  princess,  in  some  unfortunate  moment  breaks 
his  vow  of  fidelity,  and  unable  to  appease  the  in- 
dignation of  his  mistress,  he  retires  to  a  forest, 
builds  himself  a  cabin  of  boughs,  and  turns  hermit, 
having  first  made  a  solemn  vow  that  he  will  never 
leave  his  solitude  till  he  is  received  ink  favor  by 
his  offended  love.  Being  one  of  the  most  cele- 
brated and  popular  Troubadours  of  his  province, 
all  the  knights  and  the  ladies  sympathize  with  his 
misfortunes :  they  find  themselves  terribly  ennuyes 
in  the  absence  of  the  poet  who  was  accustomed  to 
vaunt  their  charms  and  their  deeds  of  prowess ; 
and  at  the  end  of  two  years  they  send  a  deputation, 
entreating  him  to  return, — but  in  vain :  they  then 
address  themselves  to  the  lady,  and  humbly  solicit 
the  pardon  of  the  offender,  whose  disgrace  in  her 
sight  has  thrown  a  whole  province  into  mourning. 
The  princess  at  length  relents,  but  upon  conditions 
which  appear  in  these  unromantic  times  equally 
extraordinary  and  difficult  to  fulfil.  She  requires 
tnat  a  hundred  brave  knights,  and  a  hundred  fair 
dames,  pledged  in  love  to  each  other,  (s'aimant 
d'amour)  should  appear  before  her  on  their  knees, 
and  with  joined  hands  supplicate  for  mercy :  the 
conditions  are  fulfilled  :  the  hundred  pair  of  lovers 
are  tound  to  go  through  the  ceremony,  and  the 
Troubadour  receives  his  pardon.* 

The  story  of  Peyre  de  Ruer,  "  gentilhomme  et 
Trobadour,"  might  be  termed  a  satirical  romance, 
did  we  not  know  that  it  is  a  plain  fact,  related  with 
*  Millot,  vol.  iii.  p.  86.— Guinguen£,  vol.  i.  p-  280 


32  THE   LOVES    Ol< 

perfect  simplicity.  He  devotes  himself  to  a  lady 
of  the  noble  Italian  family  of  Carraccioli,  and  in  her 
praise  he  composes,  as  usual,  "  maintes  belles  et 
doctes  chansons :  "—but  the  lady  seems  to  have  had 
a  taste  for  magnificence  and  pleasure  ;  and  the 
poet,  in  order  to  find  favor  in  her  eyes,  expends 
his  patrimony  in  rich  apparel,  banquets,  and  joustes 
in  her  honor.  The  lady,  however,  continues  inex- 
orable ;  and  Peyre  de  Kuer  takes  the  habit  of  a 
pilgrim  and  wanders  about  the  country.  He  ar- 
rives in  the  holy  week  at  a  certain  church,  and 
desires  of  the  cure  permission  to  preach  to  his  con- 
gregation of  penitents : — he  ascends  the  pulpit, 
and  recites  with  infinite  fervor  and  grace  one  of 
his  ®wn  chansons  d'amour, — for,  says  the  chronicle, 
"  autre  chose  ne  spavait"  "•  he  knew  nothing  better." 
The  people,  mistaking  it  for  an  invocation  to  the 
Virgin  Mary  or  the  Saints,  are  deeply  affected  and 
edified ;  eyes  are  seen  to  weep  that  never  wept 
before ;  the  most  impenitent  hearts  are  suddenly 
softened :  he  concludes  with  an  exhortation  in  the 
same  strain — and  then  descending  from  the  pulpit, 
places  himself  at  the  door,  and  holding  out  his  hat 
for  the  customary  alms,  his  delighted  congregation 
fill  it  to  overflowing  with  pieces  of  silver.  Peyer 
de  Ruer  forthwith  casts  off  his  pilgrim's  gown, 
and  in  a  new  and  splendid  dress,  and  with  a  new 
song  in  his  hand,  he  presents  himself  before  the 
lady  of  his  love,  who,  charmed  by  his  gay  attire 
not  less  than  by  his  return,  receives  him  most  gra- 
ciously, and  bestows  on  him  "  maintes  caresses." 


THE   TROUBADOURS.  83 

1  nrist  observe  that  the  biographer  of  this  Peyei 
de  Kuer,  himself  a  churchman,  does  not  appear  in 
the  least  scandalized  or  surprised  at  this  very  novel 
mode  of  recruiting  his  finances  and  obtaining  the 
favor  of  the  lady  ;  but  gives  us  fairly  to  understand, 
that  after  such  a  proof  of  layaute,  he  should  have 
thought  it  quite  contrary  to  all  rule  if  she  had  still 
rejected  the  addresses  of  this  gentil  Troubadour. 

Jauffred  (or  Geffrey)  de  Rudel  is  yet  more 
famous,  and  his  story  will  strikingly  illustrate  the 
manners  of  those  times.  Rudel  was  the  favorite 
minstrel  of  Geffrey  de  Platagenet.  Bretagne,  the 
elder  brother  of  our  Richard  Coeur  de  Lion,  and 
like  the  Royal  Richard,  a  patron  of  music  and 
poetry.  During  the  residence  of  Rudel  at  the 
court  of  England,  where  he  resided  in  great  honor 
and  splendor,  caressed  for  his  talents,  and  loved 
for  the  gentleness  of  his  manners,  he  heard  con- 
tinually the  praises  of  a  certain  Countess  of  Tri- 
poli, famed  throughout  Europe  'for  her  munificent 
hospitality  to  the  poor  Crusaders.  The  pilgrims 
and  soldiers  of  the  Cross,  who  were  returning  way- 
worn, sick,  and  disabled,  from  the  burning  plains 
of  Asia,  were  relieved  and  entertained  by  this 
de  rout  and  benevolent  Countess ;  and  they  repaid 
her  generosity,  with  all  the  enthusiasm  of  grati- 
tude, by  spreading  her  fame  throughout  Christen- 
dom. 

These  reports  of  her  beauty  and  her  beneficence, 
constantly  repeated,  fired  the  susceptible  fancy  of 
Rudel :  without  having  seen  her,  he  fell  passion- 


34  THE    TROVES    OP 

ately  in  love  with  her,  and  unable  to  bear  any 
longer  the  torments  of  absence,  he  undertook  a 
pilgrimage  to  visit  this  unknown  lady  of  his  love, 
iu  company  with  Bertrand  d'Allamanon,  anothei 
celebrated  Troubadour  of  those  days.  He  quitted 
the  English  court  in  spite  of  the  entreaties  and 
expostulations  of  Prince  Geffrey  Platagenet,  and 
sailed  for  the  Levant.  But  so  it  chanced,  that  fall- 
ing grievously  sick  on  the  voyage,  he  lived  only 
till  his  vessel  reached  the  shores  of  Tripoli.  The 
Countess  being  told  that  a  celebrated  poet  had 
just  arrived  in  her  harbour,  who  was  dying  for  her 
love,  immediately  hastened  on  board,  and  taking 
his  hand,  entreated  him  to  live  for  her  sake.  Rudel, 
already  speechless,  and  almost  in  the  agonies  of 
death,  revived  for  a  moment  at  this  unexpected 
grace;  he  was  just  able  to  express,  by  a  last 
effort,  the  excess  of  his  gratitude  and  love,  and 
expired  in  her  arms  :  thereupon  the  Countess  wept 
bitterly,  and  vowed  herself  to  a  life  of  penance 
for  the  loss  she  had  caused  to  the  world.*  She 

*  "  Dopuis  ne  fut  jamais  veue  faire  bonne  chere,"  says  the  old 
chronicle. — I  am  tempted  to  add  the  description  of  the  first  and 
last  interview  of  the  Countess  and  her  lover  in  the  exquisite  old 
French,  of  which  the  antique  simplicity  and  naivete  are  untrans- 
latable. 

"  En  cet  estat  fut  conduit  au  port  de  Trypolly,  et  1&  arrive,  son 
compagnon  feist  (Jit)  entendre  i  la  Comtesse  la  venue  de  Pelerin 
malade.  La  Comtesse  estant  venue  en  la  nef,  prit  le  poete  par  l:i 
main ;  et  lui,  sachant  que  c'estait  la  Comtesse,  incontinent  apret 
ledoult  et  graciex  accueil,  recouvra  ses  esprits,  la  temercia  de  c« 
qu'elle  lui  avait  recouvre  la  vie,  et  lui  diet:  '  Tres  illustre  et  ver 
tueuse  priucesse  je  ne  plaindrai  point  la  inort  orcsrjue'— at  ni 


THE   TROUBADCUR8.  35 

commanded  that  the  last  song  which  Rudel  had 
composed  in  her  honor,  should  be  transcribed  in 
letters  of  gold,  and  carried  it  always  in  her  bosom ; 
and  his  remains  were  enclosed  in  a  magnificent 
mausoleum  of  porphyry,  with  an  Arabic  inscrip- 
tion, commemorating  his  genius  and  his  love  for 
her. 

It  is  in  allusion  to  this  well-known  story,  that 
Petrarch  has  introduced  Rudel  into  Trionfo  d' 
Amore. 

Gianfre  Rudel  ch'  uso  la  vela  e  '1  rerao, 
A  cercar  la  suo  morte. 

The  song  which  the  minstrel  composed  when  he 
fell  sick  on  this  romantic  expedition,  and  found  his 
strength  begin  to  fail,  and  which  the  Countess  wore, 
folded  within  her  vest,  to  the  end  of  her  life',  is 
extant,  and  has  been  translated  into  most  of  the 
languages  of  Europe ;  of  these  translations  Sismon- 
di's  is  the  best,  preserving  the  original  and  curious 
arrangement  of  the  rhymes,  as  well  as  the  piety, 
Dai'vete,  and  fenderness  of  the  sentiment.  • 

Irrite"  dolent  partirai 
Si  ne  vois  cet  amour  de  loin, 
Et  ne  sais  quand  je  le  verrai 
Car  sont  par  trop  nos  terres  loin. 
Dieu,  qui  toutes  choses  as  fait 
Et  formas  cet  amour  si  loin, 
Donn;>  force  a  mon  cceur,  car  ai 

pouvant  achever  son  propos,  sa  maladie  s'algrissant  et  augment- 
ant,  rendit  1'esprrc  entre  les  mains  de  ta  Comtesse. —  Vies  des  plui 
<4Ubres  PoUtes  Proven<;am,  p.  24. 


|<3  THE   LOVES    OF 

L'espoir  de  voir  m' amour  au  kin. 
Ah,  Seigneur,  tenez  pour  bien  vrai 
L' amour  qu'ai  pour  elle  de  loin. 
Car  pour  un  bien  que  j'en  aural 
J'ai  mille  maux,  tant  je  suis  loin. 
Ja  d'autr' amour  ne  jouirai 
Sinon  de  cet  amour  de  loin — 
Qu'une  phis  belle  je  n'en  S9ais 
En  lieu  qui  soit  ni  pres  ni  loin ! 

Mrs,  Piozzi  and  others  have  paraphrased  this 
little  song,  but  in  a  spirit  so  different  from  the  an- 
tique simplicity  of  the  original,  that  I  shall  venture 
to  give  a  version,  which  has  at  least  the  merit  of 
being  as  faithful  as  the  different  idioms  of  the  lan- 
guages will  allow;  I  am  afraid,  however,  that  it 
will  not  appear  worthy  of  the  tonor  which  the 
Countess  conferred  on  it. 

"  Grieved  and  troubled  shall  I  die, 

If  1  meet  not  my  love  afar; 
Alas !  I  know  not  that  I  e'er 

Shall  see  her — for  she  dwells  afar. 
0  God!  that  didst  all  things  create, 

And  formed  my  sweet  love  now  afar; 
Strengthen  my  heart,  that  I  may  hope 

To  behold  her  face  who  is  afar. 
0  Lord !  believe  how  very  true 

Is  my  love  for  her,  alas !  afar, 
Tho'  for  each  joy  a  thousand  pains 

I  bear,  because  I  am  so  far. 

Bertram!  d'Allamanon,  whom  I  have  mentioned 
as  the  companion  of  Rudel  on  his  romantic  expe- 
dition, has  left  us  a  little  hallad,  remarkable  for  the 


THE    TROUBADOURS.  8? 

extreme  refinement  of  the  sentiment,  which  is 
quite  a  la  Petrarque  :  he  gives  it  the  fantastic  title 
of  a  demi  chanson,  for  a  very  fantastical  reason  :  it 
is  thus  translated  in  Millot,  (vol.  i.  p.  390.) 

Another  love  I'll  never  have, 

Save  only  she  who  is  afar, 
For  fairer  one  I  never  knew 

In  places  near,  nor  yet  afar." 

"  On  veut  savoir  pourquoi  je  fais  une  demi  chan- 
son ?  c'est  parceque  je  n'ai  qu'un  demi  sujet  de 
chanter.  II  n'y  a  d'amour  que  de  ma  part ;  la 
dame  que  j'aime  ne  veut  pas  m'aimer !  mais  au  de- 
faut  des  oui  qu'elle  me  refuse,  je  prendrai  les  non 
qu'elle  me  prodigue  : — esperer  aupres  d'elle  vaut 
mieux  que  jouir  avec  tout  autre!" 

This  is  exactly  the  sentiment  of  Petrarch : 

Pur  mi  consola,  che  morir  per  lei 
Meglio  e  che  gioir  d'altra — 

But  it  is  one  of  those  thoughts  which  spring  in  the 
heart,  and  might  often  be  repeated  without  once 
being  borrowed. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  LOVES  OF  THE  TROUBADOURS. 

CONTINUED. 

IN  striking  contrast  to  the  tender  and  gentle 
Etudel,  we  have  the  ferocious  Bcrtrand  de  Born : 


38  THE  LOVES  or 

he,  loo,  was  one  of  the  most  cele orated  Trouba- 
dours of  his'time.  As  a  petty  feudal  sovereign,  he 
was,  partly  by  the  events  of  the  age,  more  by  his 
own  fierce  and  headlong  passions,  plunged  in  con- 
tinual wars.  Nature,  however,  had  made  him  a 
poet  of  the  first  order.  In  these  days  he  would 
have  been  another  Lord  Byron  ;  but  he  lived  in  a 
terrible  and  convulsed  state  of  society,  and  it  was 
only  in  the  intervals  snatched  from  his  usual  pur- 
suits,— that  is,  from  burning  the  castles,  and  ravag- 
ing the  lands  of  his  neighbours,  and  stirring  up  re- 
bellion, discord,  and  bloodshed  all  around  him, — 
that  he  composed  a  vast  number  of  lays,  serventes, 
and  chansons  ;  some  breathing  the  most  martial,  and 
even  merciless  spirit ;  others  devoted  to  the  praise 
and  honor  of  his  love,  or  rather  loves,  as  full  of 
submissive  tenderness  and  chivalrous  gallantry. 

He  first  celebrated  Elinor  Plantagenet,  the  sister 
of  his  friend  and  brother  in  arms  and  song,  Rich- 
ard Coeur  de  Lion  ;  and  we  are  expressly  told  that 
Richard  was  proud  of  the  poetical  homage  ren- 
dered to  the  charms  of  his  sister  by  this  knightly 
Troubadour,  and  that  the  Princess  was  far  from 
being  insensible  to  his  admiration.  Only  one  of 
the  many  songs  addressed  to  Elinor  has  been  pre- 
served ;  from  which  we  gather,  that  it  was  com- 
posed by  Bertrand  in  the  field,  at  a  time  when  his 
army  was  threatened  with  famine,  and  the  poet 
himself  was  suffering  from  the  pangs  of  hunger. 
Elinor  married  the  Duke  of  Saxony,  and  Bertrand 
chose  for  his  next  love  the  beautiful  Maenz  de 


t'HK    TROUBADOURS.  3S 

Mcntagi.ac,  daughter  of  the  Viscount  of  Turenne 
and  wife  of  Talleyrand  de  Perigord.  The  lad) 
accepted  his  service,  and  acknowledged  him  as  her 
Knight ;  but  evil  tongues  having  attempted  to  sow 
dissension  between  the  lovers,  Bertrand  addressed 
to  her  a  song,  in  which  he  defends  himself  from  the 
imputation  of  inconstancy,  in  a  style  altogether 
characteristic  and  original.  The  warrior  poet, 
borrowing  from  the  objects  of  his  daily  cares,  am- 
bition and  pleasure,  phrases  to  illustrate  and  en- 
hance the  expression  of  his  love,  wishes  "  that  he 
may  lose  his  favorite  hawk  in  her  first  flight ;  that 
a  falcon  may  stoop  and  bear  her  off,  as  she  sits 
upon  his  wrist,  and  tear  her  in  his  sight,  if  the 
sound  of  his  lady's  voice  be  not  dearer  to  him 
than  all  the  gifts  of  love  from  another."—"  That 
he  may  stumble  with  his  shield  about  his  neck ; 
that  his  helmet  may  gall  his  brow ;  that  his  bridle 
may  be  too  long,  his  stirrups  too  short ;  that  he  may 
be  forced  to  ride  a  hard-trotting  horse,  and  find  his 
groom  drunk  when  he  arrives  at  his  gate,  if  there 
be  a  word  of  truth  in  the  accusations  of  his  enemies  : 
— that  he  may  not  have  a  denier  to  stake  at  the 
gaming-table,  and  that  the  dice  may  never  more 
be  favorable  to  him,  if  ever  he  had  swerved  from 
his  faith  : — that  he  may  look  on  like  a  dastard,  and 
see  his  lady  woced  and  won  by  another ; — that  the 
winds  may  fail  Lim  at  sea ; — that  in  the  battle  he 
may  be  the  first  to  fly,  if  he  who  has  slandered  him 
does  not  lie  in  his  throat,"  &c.,  and  so  on  through 
%even  or  eight  stanzas. 


40  THE   LOVES    OF 

Bcrtrand  ie  Born  exercised  in  his  Lme  a  fatal 
influence  on  the  counsels  and  politics  of  England. 
A  close  and  ardent  friendship  existed  between  him 
and  young  Henry  Plantagenet,  the  eldest  son  of 
our  Henry  the  Second  ;  and  the  family  dissensions 
which  distracted  the  English  Court,  and  the  unnat- 
ural rebellion  of  Henry  and  Richard  against  their 
father,  were  his  work.  It  happened  some  time 
after  the  death  of  Prince  Henry,  that  the  King  of 
England  besieged  Bertrand  de  Born  in  one  of  his 
castles  :  the  resistance  was  long  and  obstinate,  but 
at  length  the  warlike  Troubadour  was  taken  pris- 
oner and  brought  before  the  King,  so  justly  in- 
censed against  him,  and  from  whom  he  had  cer- 
tainly no  mercy  to  expect.  The  heart  of  Henry 
was  still  bleeding  with  the  wounds  inflicted  by  his 
ungrateful  children,  and  he  saw  before  him,  and  in 
his  power,  the  primary  cause  of  their  misdeeds  and 
his  own  bitter  sufferings.  Bertrand  was  on  the 
point  of  being  led  out  to  death,  when  by  a  single 
word  he  reminded  the  King  of  his  lost  son,  and 
the  tender  friendship  which  had  existed  between 
them.*  The  chord  was  struck  which  never  ceased 
to  vibrate  in  the  parental  heart  of  Henry ;  burst- 
ing into  tears,  he  turned  aside,  and  commanded 
Bertrand  and  his  followers  to  be  immediately  set 
al  liberty ;  he  even  restored  to  Bertrand  his  castle 
and  his  lands,  "  in  the  name  of  his  dead  son"  It  ia 
euch  traits  as  these,  occurring  at  every  page,  whicfc 

*  Le  Roi  lui  demande,  "  S'il  a  perdu  raison  ?  »  il  hii  repond 
*  Helas,  oui !  c'est  depuis  lamorc  du  Prince  Henri,  votre  fils!  '* 


THE    TROUBADOURS.  41 

lend  to  ttie  chronicles  of  this  stormy  period  an  in 
terest  overpowering  the  horror  they  would  otherwise 
excite  :  for  then  all  the  best,  as  well  as  the  worst  of 
human  passions  were  called  into  play.  Jn  this  tem- 
pestuous commingling  of  all  the  jarring  elements 
of  society,  we  have  those  strange  approximations 
of  the  most  opposite  sentiments, — implacable  re- 
venge and  sublime  forgiveness ; — gross  licentious- 
ness and  delicate  tenderness; — barbarism  and  re- 
finement ; — treachery  and  fidelity — which  remind 
one  of  that  heterogeneous  mass  tossed  up  by  a 
stormy  ocean ;  heaps  of  pearls,  unvalued  gems, 
wedges  of  gold,  mingled  with  dead  men's  bones, 
and  all  the  slimy,  loathsome,  and  monotonous  pro- 
duction of  the  deep,  which  during  a  calm  remain 
together  concealed  and  unknown  in  its  unfathomed 
abysses. 

To  return  from  this  long  similitude  of  Bertrand 
de  Born :  he  concluded  his  stormy  career  in  a 
manner  very  characteristic  of  the  times ;  for  he 
turned  monk,  and  died  in  the  odor  of  sanctity. 
But  neither  his  late  devotion,  nor  his  warlike  hero- 
ism, nor  his  poetic  fame,  could  rescue  him  from  the 
severe  justice  of  Dante,  who  has  visited  his  crimes 
and  his  violence  with  so  terrible  a  judgment,  that 
we  forget,  while  we  thrill  with  horror,  that  the 
primes  were  real,  the  penance  only  imaginary. 
Dante,  in  one  of  the  circles  of  the  Inferno,  meets 
Bertrand  de  Born  carrying  his  severed  head,  lan- 
tern wise,  in  his  hand ; — the  phantom  lifts  it  up  by 
•vhe  hair,  and  the  ghastly  lips  unclose  to  confess  the 


42  THE   LOVES   OF 

cause  and  the  justice  of  this  horrible  and  unheard 
of  penance. 

Or  vedi  la  pena  molesta 

Tu  che  spirando  vai  veggendo  i  morti; 
Vedi  s'alcuna  e  grande  come  questa. 

E  perche  tu  di  me  novella  porti, 
Sappi  ch'  i'  son  Bertram  dal  Bornio,  quelli 
Che  diedi  al  Re  giovane  i  ma'  conforti 

I'  feci  '1  padre  e  '1  figlio  in  se  ribelli : 
*  *  *  * 

Perch' io  partii  cosl  giunte  persone, 
Partito  porto  il  mio  cerebro,  lasso ! 
Dal  suo  principio  ch  'e  'n  questo  troncone. 

Cosl  s'osserva  in  me  lo  contrappasso.* 

Now  behold 

This  grievous  torment,  thou,  who  breathing  goest 
To  spy  the  dead :  behold,  if  any  else 
Be  terrible  as  this, — and  that  on  earth 
Thou  may'st  bear  tidings  of  me,  know  that  I 
Am  Bertrand,  he  of  Born,  who  gave  King  John 
The  counsel  mischievous.     Father  and  son 
I  set  at  mutual  war: 

-  Spurring  them  on  maliciously  to  strife. 
For  parting  those  so  closely  knit,  my  brain 
Parted,  alas !  I  carry  from  its  source 
That  in  this  trunk  inhabits.     Thus  the  law 
Of  retribution  fiercely  works  in  me.f 

Pierre  Vidal,  whose  description  of  love  I  have 
quoted  before,  was  one  of  the  most  extraordinary 

*  Inferno,  c.  xxviii. 

t  Carey's  translation  of  Dante.    Mr.  Carey  reads  Re  Giovarma, 
instead  of  Re  giovane :— King  John,  instead  of  Prince  Henry. 


THE    litOUBADOURS  43 

2haracters  of  his  time,  a  kind  of  poetical  Don 
Q.uixotte: — his  brain  was  turned  with  love,  poetiy, 
and  vanity  :  he  believed  himself  the  beloved  of  all  the 
fair,  the  mirror  of  knighthood,  and  the  prince  of 
Troabadours.  Yet  in  the  midst  of  all  his  extrav- 
agances, he  possessed  exquisite  skill  in  his  art,  and 
was  not  surpassed  by  any  of  the  poets  of  those  days, 
for  the  harmony,  delicacy,  and  tenderness  of  his 
amatory  effusions.  He  chose  for  his  first  love  the 
beautiful  wife  of  the  Viscomte  de  Marseilles :  the 
lady,  unlike  some  of  the  Princesses  of  her  time, 
distinguished  between  the  poet  and  the  man,  and 
as  he  presumed  too  far  on  the  encouragement  be- 
stowed on  him  in  the  former  capacity,  he  was  ban- 
ished :  he  then  followed  Kichard  the  First  to  the 
crusade.  The  verses  he  addressed  to  the  lady  from 
the  Island  of  Cyprus  are  still  preserved.  The  folly 
of  Vidal,  or  rather  the  derangement  of  his  imagi- 
nation, subjected  him  to  some  of  those  mystifications 
which  remind  us  of  Don  Quixotte  and  Sancho,  in 
the  court  of  the  laughter-loving  Duchess.  For  in- 
stance, Richard  and  his  followers  amused  them- 
selves at  Cyprus,  by  marrying  Vidal  to  a  beautiful 
Greek  girl  of  no  immaculate  reputation,  whom 
they  introduced  to  him  as  the  niece  of  the  Greek 
Emperor.  Vidal,  in  right  of  his  wife,  immediately 
took  the  title  of  Emperor,  assumed  the  purple, 
ordered  a  throne  to  be  carried  before  him,  and 
played  the  most  fantastic  antics  of  authority.  Nor 
was  this  the  greatest  of  his  extravagances :  on  hia 
return  to  Provence,  he  chose  for  the  second  object 


44  THE    LOVES    OF 

of  his  amorous  and  poetical  devotion,  a  lady  whose 
name  happened  to  be  Louve  de  Penautier :  in  her 
honor  he  assumed  the  name  of  Loup,  and  farther 
to  merit  the  good  graces  of  his  "  Dame."  and  to  do 
honor  to  the  name  he  had  adopted,  he  dressed 
himself  in  the  hide  of  a  wolf,  and  caused  himself 
to  be  hunted  in  good  earnest  by  a  pack  of  dogs : 
he  was  brought  back  exhausted  and  half  dead  to 
the  feet  of  his  mistress,  who  appears  to  have  been 
more  moved  to  merriment  than  to  love  by  this  new 
and  ridiculous  exploit. 

In  general,  however,  the  Troubadours  had  sel- 
dom reason  to  complain  of  the  cruelty  of  the 
ladies  to  whom  they  devoted  their  service  and  their 
songs.  The  most  virtuous  and  illustrious  women 
thought  themselves  justified  in  repaying,  with 
smiles  and  favors,  the  poetical  adoration  of  their 
lovers ;  and  this  lasted  until  the  profession  of  Trou- 
badour was  dishonored  by  the  indiscretions,  follies, 
and  vices  of  those  who  assumed  it.  Thus  Peyrols, 
a  famous  Provencal  poet,  who  was  distinguished  in 
the  court  of  the  Dauphin  d'Auvergne,  fell  passion- 
ately in  love  with  the  sister  of  that  Prince,  (the 
Baronne  de  Mercoeur,)  and  the  Dauphin,  (himself 
a  Troubadour)  proud  of  the  genius  of  his  minstrel 
and  of  the  poetical  devotion  paid  to  his  sister,  de- 
sired her  to  bestow  on  her  lover  all  the  encourage- 
ment and  favor  which  was  consistent  with  her  dig- 
nity. The  lady,  however,  either  misunderstood 
her  instructions,  or  found  it  too  difficult  to  obey 
them  •  the  seducing  talents  and  tender  verses  of 


THE    TROUBADOURS.  45 

this  gentil  Troubadour  prevailed  over  her  digrity : 
— Peyrols  was  beloved ;  but  he  was  not  sufficiently 
discreet.  The  sudden  change  in  the  tone  and  style 
of  his  songs  betrayed  him,  and  he  was  banished.  A 
great  number  of  his  verses,  celebrating  the  Dame 
de  Mercoeur,  are  preserved  by  St.  Palaye,  and 
translated  by  Mi  Hot. 

Bernard  de  Ventradour  was  beloved  by  Elinor 
de  Guienne,  afterwards  the  wife  of  our  Henry  the 
Second,  and  the  mother  of  Richard  the  First  :— 
I  have  before  observed  the  poetical  penchants  of 
all  Elinor's  children,  which  they  seem  to  have  in- 
herited from  their  mother. 

Sordello  of  Mantua,  whose  name  is  familiar  to 
all  the  readers  of  Dante,  as  occurring  in  one  of  the 
finest  passages  of  this  great  poem,*  was  an  Italian, 
but  like  all  the  best  poets  of  his  day,  wrote  in  the 
Provencal  tongue  :  he  is  said  to  have  carried  off 
the  sister  of  that  modern  Phalaris,  the  tyrant  Ez- 
zelino  of  Padua.  There  is  a  very  elegant  ballad 
(ballata)  by  Sordello,  translated  in  Millet's  collec- 
tion ;  it  is  properly  a  kind  of  rondeau,  the  first 
line  being  repeated  at  the  end  of  every  stanza ; 
"  Helas !  a  quoi  me  servent  mes  yeux  ?  " — "  Alas ! 
wherefore  have  I  eyes  ?  " — It  describes  the  pleas- 
ures of  the  Spring,  which  are  to  him  as  nothing, 
'n  the  absence  of  the  only  object  on  which  his  eyea 
can  dwell  with  delight  The  arrangement  of  the 
rhymes  in  this  pastoral  song  is  singularly  elegant 
and  musical. 

*  Purgatorio,  c.  T! 


46  THE   LOVES   OP 

Lastly,  as  illustrating  the  history  of  the  amatory 
poetry  of  this  age,  I  extract  from  Nostradamus  * 
the  story  of  the  young  Countess  de  Die  ;  she  loved 
and  was  beloved  by  the  Chevalier  d'Adhemar : 
(ancestor  I  presume  to  that  Chevalier  d'Adhemar 
who  figures  in  the  letters  of  Madame  de  Sevigne.) 
It  was  not  in  this  case  the  lover  who  celebrated  the 
charms  of  his  mistress,  but  the  lady,  who,  being  an 
illustrious  female  Troubadour,  "  docte  en  poe'sie," 
celebrated  the  exploits  and  magnanimity  of  hti 
lover.  The  Chevalier,  proud  of  such  a  distinction, 
caused  the  verses  of  his  mistress  to  be  beautifully 
copied,  and  always  carried  them  in  his  bosom  ;  and 
whenever  he  was  in  the  company  of  knights  and 
ladies,  he  enchanted  them  by  singing  a  couplet 
in  his  own  praise  out  of  his  lady's  book.  The  pub- 
licity thus  given  to  their  love,  was  quite  in  the 
spirit  of  the  times,  and  does  not  appear  to  have  in- 
jured the  reputation  of  the  Countess  for  immacu- 
late virtue,f  which  Adhemar  would  probably  have 
defended  with  lance  and  spear,  against  any  slander- 
ous tongue  which  had  dared  to  defame  her. 

The  conclusion  of  this  romantic  story  is  melan- 


*  Vies  des  plus  celebres  poe'tes  Provencaux. 

t  Agnes  de  Navarre  Comtesse  de  Foix,  was  beloved  by  Quillauiue 
de  Machaut,  a  French  poet;  he  became  jealous,  and  she  sent  hei 
own  confessor  to  him  to  complain  of  the  injustice  of  his  suspicions, 
and  to  swear  that  she  was  still  faithful  to  him.  She  required, 
also,  of  her  lover,  to  write  and  to  publish  in  verse  the  history  of 
their  love ;  and  she  preserved,  at  the  same  tune,  in  the  eyes  of  ne* 
husband  and  of  the  world,  the  character  of  a  virtuous  Princess 
—  See  Foscolo — Eaanya  on  Petrarch.. 


THE    THOTJBADOURS.  47 

choly.  Adhemar  heard  a  false  report,  that  the 
Countess,  whose  purity  and  constancy  he  had  so 
proudly  maintained,  had  cast  away  her  smiles  on  a 
rival :  he  fell  sick  with  grief  and  bitterness  of  heart : 
the  Countess,  being  informed  of  his  state,  set  out, 
accompanied  by  her  mother,  and  a  long  train  of 
knights  and  ladies,  to  visit  and  comfort  him  with 
assurances  of  her  fidelity  ;  but  when  she  appeared 
at  his  bedside  and  drew  the  curtain,  it  was  already 
too  late :  Adhemar  expired  in  her  arms.  The 
Countess  took  the  veil  in  the  convent  of  St.  Ho- 
nore,  and  died  the  same  year  of  grief,  says  the 
chronicle ; — and  to  conclude  the  tragedy  charac- 
teristically, the  mother  of  the  young  Countess 
ouried  her  in  the  same  grave  with  her  lover,  an«i 
raised  a  superb  monument  to  the  memory  of  both. 
The  Countess  de  Die  was  one  of  the  ten  ladies 
who  formed  the  Court  of  Love,  held  at  Pierrefeu, 
(about  1194,)  and  in  which  Estifanie  de  Baux  pre- 
sided. 

These  Courts  of  Love,  and  the  scenes  they  gave 
rise  to,  were  certainly  open  to  ridicule ;  the  "  belles 
et  subtiles  questions  d'amour"  which  were  there 
solemnly  discussed,  and  decided  by  ladies  of  rank, 
were  often  absurd,  and  the  decisions  something 
worse:  still,  the  fanciful  influence  they  gave  to 
women  on  these  subjects,  and  the  gallantry  they  in- 
troduced into  the  intercourse  between  the  sexes, 
had  a  tendency  to  soften  the  manners,  to  refine 
the  language,  and  to  tinge  the  sentiments  and  pas- 
•ions  with  a  kind  of  philosophical  mysticism.  But 


48  THE   LOVES    OF 

these  gay  and  gallant  Courts  of  Love,  the  Proven- 
9al  Troubadours,  their  lays,  which  for  two  centuries 
had  been  the  delight  of  all  ranks  of  people,  and 
had  spread  music,  love,  and  poetry  through  the 
land; — their  language,  which  had  been  the  chosen 
dialect  of  gallantry,  in  every  court  in  Europe, — 
were  at  once  swept  from  the  earth. 

The  glory  of  the  Proven9al  literature  began 
when  Provence  was  raised  to  an  independent  Fief, 
under  Count  Berenger  I.  about  the  year  1100  ;  it 
lasted  two  entire  centuries,  and  ended  when  that 
fine  and  fertile  country  became  the  scene  of  the 
horrible  crusade  against  the  Albigenses ;  when  the 
Inquisition  sent  forth  its  exterminating  fiends  to 
scatter  horror  and  devastation  through  the  land, 
and  the  wars  and  rapacity  of  Charles  of  Anjou,  its 
new  possessor,  almost  depopulated  the  country. 
The  language  which  had  once  celebrated  deeds  of 
love  and  heroism,  now  sang  only  of  desolation  and 
despair.  The  Troubadours,  in  a  strain  worthy  of 
their  gentle  and  noble  calling,  generally  advocated 
the  par4,  of  the  Albigenses,  and  the  oppressed  of 
whatever  faith ;  and  in  many  provinces,  in  Lorn- 
bardy  especially,  their  language  was  interdicted, 
lest  it  might  introduce  heretical  or  rebellious  prin- 
ciples ;  gradually  it  fell  into  disuse,  and  at  length 
into  total  oblivion.  The  Troubadours,  no  longer 
welcomed  in  castle  or  in  hall,  where  once 


They  poured  to  lords  and  ladies  gay, 
The  unpremeditated  lay, 


THE    TROUBADOURS.  49 

were  degraded  to  wandering  minstrels  and  itinerant 
jugglers.  An  attempt  was  made,  about  a  century 
later,  (1324)  by  the  institution  of  the  Floral  Games 
at  Thoulouse,  to  keep  alive  this  high  strain  of 
poetical  gallantry.  They  were  formerly  celebrated 
with  great  splendor,  and  a  shadow  of  this  institu- 
tion is,  I  believe,  still  kept  up,  but  it  has  degener- 
ated into  a  mere  school  of  affectation.  The 
original  race  of  the  Troubadours  was  extinct  long 
before  Clemence  d'Isaure  and  her  golden  violet 
were  thought  of. 

I  cannot  quit  the  subject  of  the  Troubadours 
without  one  or  two  concluding  observations.  To 
these  rude  bards  we  owe  some  new  notions  of 
poetical  justice,  which  never  seem  to  have  occurred 
to  Horace  or  Longinus,  and  are  certainly  more 
magnanimous,  as  well  as  more  true  to  moral  feel- 
ing, than  those  which  prevailed  among  the  polished 
Greeks  and  Romans.  For  instance,  the  generous 
Hector  and  the  constant  Troilus  are  invariably 
exalted  above  the  subtle  Ulysses  and  the  savage 
Achilles.  Theseus,  Jason,  and  jiEneas,  instead  of 
being  represented  as  classical  heroes  and  pious 
favorites  of  the  gods,  are  denounced  as  recreant 
knights  and  false  traitors  to  love  and  beauty.  In 
the  estimation  of  these  chivalrous  bards,  a  woman's 
tears  outweighed  the  exploits  of  demi-gods ;  all  the 
glory  of  Theseus  is  forgotten  in  sympathy  for 
Ariadne ;  and  ^Eneas,  in  Jhe  old  ballads  and  ro- 
mances, is  not,  after  all  his  perfidy,  dismissed  to 
happiness  and  victory,  but  is  plagued  by  the  fiends, 


BO  THE   LOVES   OP 

haunted  by  poor  Dido's  "  grimly  ghost,*'  and 
finally,  doomed  to  perish  miserably.*  Nor  doea 
Jason  fare  better  at  their  hands;  in  all  the  old 
poets  he  is  consigned  to  just  execration.  In  Dante, 
we  have  a  magnificent  and  a  terrible  picture  ol 
him,  doomed  to  one  of  the  lowest  circles  of  hell, 
amid  a  herd  of  vile  seducers,  who  betrayed  the 
trusting  faith,  or  bartered  the  charms  of  women 
Demons  scourge  him  up  and  down,  without  mercy 
or  respite,  in  vengeance  for  the  wrongs  of  Hypsipyl« 
and  Medea. 

Guarda  quel  grande  che  viene 

£  per  dolor,  non  par  lagrima  spanda; 

Quanto  aspetto  reale  ancor  ritiene ! 

Quelli  e  Giasone — 

— Con  segni  e  con  parole  ornate 

Isifile  inganno 

Tal  colpa  a  tal  martiro  lui  condanna, 

Ed  anche  di  MEDEA  si  fa  vendetta. 

INFERNO,  C.  18 

"  Behold  that  lofty  shade,  who  this  way  tends, 
And  seems  too  woe-begone  to  drop  a  tear; 
How  yet  the  regal  aspect  he  retains ! 
*T  is  Jason— 

—  He  who  with  tokens  and  fair  witching  wor d» 
Hypsipyle  beguil'd — 

iSuch  is  the  guilt  condemns  him  to  this  pain ; 
Here  too  Medea's  injuries  are  avenged!" — 

CAREY. 

And  Chaucer  in  relating  the  same  story,  begins 
with  a  burst  of  generous  indignation  : 

*  Percy's  Reliques. 


THE   TROUBADOURS.  51 

Thou  root*  of  false  lovers,  Duke  Jason, 
Thou  slayer,  devourer,  and  confusion 
Of  gentil  women,  gentil  creatures ! 

The  story  of  this  double  perfidy  is  told  and  com- 
tiented  on  in  the  same  chivalrous  feeling  ;  and  the 
old  poet  concludes  with  characteristic  tenderness 
and  simplicity — 

This  was  the  mede  of  loving,  and  guerdon 
.That  Medea  received  of  Duke  Jason, 
Eight  for  her  truth  and  for  her  kindnesse, 
That  loved  him  better  than  herself  I  guesse ! 
And  lefte  her  father  and  her  heritage ; 
And  of  Jason  this  is  the  vassalage 
That  in  his  dayes  were  never  none  yfound, 
So  false  a  lover  going  on  the  ground. 

It  is  in  the  same  beautiful  spirit  of  reverence  to 
the  best  virtues  of  our  sex,  that  Alcestis,  the  wife 
of  Admetus,  who  sacrificed  her  life  to  prolong  that 
of  her  husband,  is  honored  above  all  other  heroines 
of  classical  story.  She  has  even  been  elevated 
into  a  kind  of  presiding  divinity, — a  second  Venus, 
with  nobler  attributes, — and  in  her  new  existence 
is  feigned  to  be  the  consort  and  companion  of 
Love  himself. 

Another  peculiarity  of  the  poetry  of  the  middle 
ages,  was  the  worship  paid  to  the  daisy,  (la  Mar- 
guerite,) as  symbolical  of  all  that  is  lovely  in 
women.  Why  so  lowly  a  flower  should  take  prece* 

*  Root,  i.  e.  example  or  beginner. 


52  THE   LOVES    OF 

dence  of  the  queenly  lily  and  the  sumptuous  rose 
is  not  very  clear ;  but  it  seems  to  have  originated 
with  one  of  the  old  Proven9al  poets,  whose  mis- 
tress bore  the  name  of  Marguerite  ;  and  afterwards 
it  became  a  fashion  and  a  kind  of  poetical  my- 
thology.* 

Thus  in  the  "  Flower  and  the  Leafe"  of  Chau- 
cer, the  ladies  and  knights  of  the  flower  approach 
singing  a  chorus  in  honor  of  the  Daisy,  of  which 
the  burden  is  "  si  douce  est  la  Marguerite  " 


CHAPTER  V. 

GUIDO    CAVALCANTI    AND    MANDETTA, 
CINO    DA   PISTOJA    AND    SELVAGGIA. 

AMATORY  poetry  was  transmitted  from  the  Pro- 
ven9als  to  the  Italians  and  Sicilians,  among  whom 
the  language  of  the  Troubadours  had  long  been 
cultivated,  and  their  songs  imitated,  but  in  style 
yet  more  affected  and  recherche.  Few  of  the 
Italian  poets  who  preceded  Dante,  are  interesting 
even  in  a  mere  literary  point  of  view  :  of  these, 
only  one  or  two  have  shed  a  reflected  splendor 
round  the  object  of  their  adoration.  Guido  Caval 

*  See  the  notes  to  Chaucer,  the  works  of  Froissart,  and  M£ 
tnoirs  sur  les  Troubadours. 


THE    TROUBADOURS.  58 

canti,  the  Florentine,  was  the  early  and  favoiite 
friend  of  Dante  :  being  engaged  in  the  factions  of 
his  native  city,  he  was  forced  on  some  emergency 
to  quit  it ;  and  to  escape  the  vengeance  of  the  pre- 
vailing party,  he  undertook  a  pilgrimage  to  San 
Jago.  Passing  through  Tolosa,  he  fell  in  love  with 
a  beautiful  Spanish  girl,  whom  he  has  celebrated 
under  the  name  of  Mandetta  : 

In  un  boschetto  trovai  pastorella 
Piu  che  la  stella  bella  al  naio  parere, 
Capegli  avea  biondetti  e  riceiutelli. 

Some  of  his  songs  and  ballads  have  considerable 
grace  and  nature,  but  they  were  considered  by 
himself  as  mere  trifles.  His  grand  work  on  which 
his  fame  long  rested  is,  a  u  Canzone  sopra  1'Amore," 
in  which  the  subject  is  so  profoundly  and  so  philo- 
sophically treated,  that  seven  voluminous  com- 
mentaries in  Latin  and  Italian  have  not  yet 
enabled  the  world  to  understand  it. 

The  following  sonnet  is  deservedly  celebrated 
for  the  consummate  beauty  of  the  picture  it  pre- 
sents, and  will  give  a  fair  idea  of  the  platonic  ex- 
travagance of  the  time. 

Chi  e  questa  che  vien  ch'  ogni  uom  la  mira ! 

Che  fa  tremar  di  caritate  1'  a're  ? 

E  mena  seco  amor,  si  che  pavlare 

Null'  uom  ne  puote;  ma  ciascun  sospira? 
AM  dio/  che  sembra  quando  gli  occhi  gira! 

Dicak  Ainor,  ch'  io  nol  saprei  contare; 


54  THE   LOVES    OF 

Cotanto  d'  uroilta  donna  mi  pare 

Che  ciascun'  altra  inver  di  lei  chiam'  ira. 

Non  si  porria  contar  la  sua  piacenza; 
Che  a  lei  s'inchina  ogni  gentil  virtute, 
E  labeltate  per  sua  Dea  la  mostra. 

Non  e  si  alta  gia  la  mente  nostra 
E  non  s'e  posta  in  noi  tanta  salute 
Che  propriamente  n'  abbian  conoscenza' 

LITERAL  TRANSLATION. 

"  Who  is  this,  on  whom  all  men  gaze  as  she  approach- 
eth! — who  causeth  the  very  air  to  tremble  around  her 
with  tenderness? — who  leadeth  Love  by  her  side — in 
\vhose  presence  men  are  dumb;  and  can  only  sigh?  Ah! 
Heaven !  what  power  in  every  glance  of  those  eyes ! 
Love  alone  Can  tell ;  for  I  have  neither  words  nor  skill ! 
She  alone  is  the  Lady  of  gentleness — beside  her,  all  others 
seem  ungracious  and  unkind.  Who  can  describe  her 
sweetness,  her  loveliness  ?  to  her  every  virtue  bows,  and 
beauty  points  to  her  as  her  own  divinity.  The  mind  of 
man  cannot  soar  so  high,  nor  is  it  sufficiently  purified  by 
divine  grace  to  understand  and  appreciate  all  her  perfec- 
tions!" 

The  vagueness  of  this  portrait  is  a  part  of  its 
oeauty : — it  is  like  a  lovely  dream — and  probably 
uever  had  any  existence,  but  in  the  fancy  of  the 
Poet. 

Cino  da  Pistoia  enjoyed  the  double  reputation 
of  being  the  greatest  doctor  and  teacher  of  the 
civil  law,  and  the  most  famous  poet  of  his  time*. 
He  was  also  remarkable  for  his  personal  accom- 
plishments and  his  love  of  pleasure.  There  is  a 


THE    TKOUBADOURS.  55 

son  net  which  Dante  addressed  to  Cino,  reproaching 
him  with  being  inconstant  and  volatile  in  love.* 
Apparently,  this  was  after  the  death  of  the  beau 
tiful  Ricciarde  del  Selvaggi;  or,  as  he  calls  her, 
his  Selvaggia :  she  was  of  a  noble  family  of  Pistoia, 
her  father  having  been  gonfaliere,  and  leader  of 
the  faction  of  the  Bianchi ;  and  she  was  also  cele- 
brated for  her  poetical  talents.  It  appears  from  a 
little  madrigal  of  hers,  which  has  been  preserved, 
that  though  she  tenderly  returned  the  aifection  of 
her  lover,  it  was  without  the  knowledge  of  her 
haughty  family.  It  is  not  distinguished  for  poetic 
power,  but  has  at  least  the  charm  of  perfect  frank- 
ness and  simplicity,  and  a  kind  of  abandon  that  is 
quite  bewitching. 

A   MESSER   CINO   DA  PISTOJA. 

Gentil  mio  sir,  lo  parlare  amoroso 
Di  voi  si  in  allegranza  mi  mantene, 
Che  dirvel  non  poria,  ben  lo  sacciate ; 

Perche  del  mio  amor  sete  jjiojoso, 
Di  cib  grand'  allegria  e  gio'  mi  vene, 
Ed  altro  mai  non  haggio  in  volontate 
Fnor  del  vostro  piacere ; 
Tutt'  hora  fate  la  vostra  voglienza : 
Haggiate  previdenza 
Voi,  di  celar  la  nostra  desienza. 

"  My  gentle  love  and  lord !  those  tender  words 
Of  thine  so  fill  my  conscious  heart  with  joy 

*  Chi  s'  innamora,  siccome  TO!  fate 

Ed  ad  ogm  piacer  si  lega  e  scioglie 

Mostra  ch'  amor  leggermente  il  seatt?.— Sow.  44 


56  THE    LOVES    OF 

— I  cannot  speak  it — but  thou  know'st  it  well; 

Wherefore  do  thon  rejoice  in  that  deep  love 

I  bear  thee,  knowing  that  I  have  no  thought 

But  to  fulfil  thy  will  and  crown  thy  wish ; 

—Watch  thou — and  hide  our  mutual  hope  from  all!  " 

Meantime  the  parents  of  Bicciarda  were  exiled 
from  Pistoia,  by  the  faction  of  the  Neri.  They 
took  refuge  from  their  enemies  in  a  little  fortress 
among  the  Apennines,  whither  Cino  followed  them, 
and  was  received  as  a  comforter  amid  their  dis- 
tresses. Probably  the  days  passed  in  this  dreary 
abode,  among  the  wild  and  solitary  hills,  when  he 
assisted  Ricciarda  in  her  household  duties,  and  in 
aiding  and  consoling  her  parents,  were  among  the 
happiest  of  his  life ;  but  the  winter  came,  and  with 
it  many  privations  and  many  hardships.  Their 
mountain  retreat  was  ill  calculated  to  defend  them 
against  the  fury  of  the  elements :  Ricciarda  drooped 
under  the  pressure  of  misery  a:ad  want,  and  her 
parents  and  her  lover  watched  the  gradual  extinc- 
tion of  life — saw  the  rose-hue  fade  from  her  cheek, 
and  the  light  from  her  eye,  till  she  melted  from 
their  arms  into  death ;  then  they  buried  her  with 
tears,  in  a  nook  among  the  mountains. 

Many  years  afterwards,  when  Cino  had  reached 
the  height  of  his  fame,  and  had  been  crowned  with 
wealth  and  honors  by  his  native  city,  he  had  occa- 
sion to  cross  the  Apennines  on  an  embassy,  and 
causing  his  suite  to  travel  by  another  road,  he 
made  a  pilgrimage  alone  to  the  tomb  of  his  lost 
Selvaggia.  This  incident  gave  rise  to  the  mos* 


THE    TROUBADOURS  57 

rtriking  of  all  his  compositions,  which  with  great 
pathos  and  sweetness  describes  his  feelings,  when 
he  flung  himself  down  on  her  humble  grave,  to 
weep  over  the  recollection  of  their  past  happiness 

lo  fu'  in  sulT  alto  e  in  sul  beato  monte, 
Ove  adorai  baciando  il  santo  sasso, 
E  caddi  in  su  quella  pietra,  oime  lasso ! 
Ove  1'  onestra  pose  la  sua  fronte ; 

E  ch'  ella  chiuse  d'  ogni  virtu  il  fonte 
Quel  giorno  clie  di  morte  acerbo  passo 
Fece  la  donna  dello  mio  cor, — lasso  I 
Gia  piena  tutta  d'  adornezze  conte. 

Quivi  chiamai  a  questa  guisa  Amore : 
"  Dolee  mio  Dio,  fa  che  quinci  mi  traggia 
La  morte  a  se,  che  qui  giace  il  mio  cor! " 

Ma  poi  che  non  m'  intese  il  mio  signore, 
Mi  disparti,  pur  chiamando,  Selvaggia ! 
L'alpe  passai,  con  voce  di  dolore. 

The  circumstance  in  the  last  stanza,  "  I  rose  up 
and  went  on  my  way,  and  passed  the  mountain 
summit,  crying  aloud  '  Selvaggia ! '  in  accents  of 
despair,"  has  a  strong  reality  about  it,  and  no 
doubt  was  real.  Her  death  took  place  about  1316. 

In  the  history  of  Italian  poetry,  Selvaggia  is 
distinguished  as  the  " bel  numer'  una" — "  the  fair 
number  one" — of  the  four  celebrated  women  of 
that  century — The  others  were  Dante's  Beatrice, 
Petrarch's  Laura,  and  Boccaccio's  Fiammetta. 

Every  one  who  reads  and  admires  Petrarch,  will 
remember  his  beautiful  Sonnet  on  the  Death  of 
Qino,  beginning  "  Piangete  Donne." 


b8  THE    TROUBADOURS. 

Perch&  1'  nostro  amoi-oso  messer  Ciixo 
Novellainente  s'e  da  noi  partito. 

In  the  venerable  Cathedral  at  Pistoia,  there  ia 
an  ancient  half-effaced  bas-relief,  representing 
Cino,  surrounded  by  his  disciples,  to  whom  he  is 
explaining  the  code  of  civil  law ;  a  little  behind 
stands  the  figure  of  a  female  veiled,  in  a  pensive 
attitude,  which  is  supposed  to  represent  Bicciarda 
de'  Selvaggi. 

All  these  are  alluded  to  by  Petrarch  in  the  Tri- 
oiifo  d'Amore. 

Ecco  Selvaggia, 

Ecco  Gin  da  Pistoja:  Guitton  d'Arezzo, 
Ecco  i  due  Guidi  che  gia  furo  in  prezzo. 

The  two  Guidi  are,  Guido  Guizzinello,  and 
Guido  Cavalcanti.  Guitone  was  a  famous  monk, 
who  is  said  to  have  invented  the  present  form  of 
the  sonnet :  to  him  also  is  attributed  the  discovery 
cf  counterpoint,  and  the  present  system  of  musical 
notation. 

Of  Conti's  mistress  nothing  is  known,  but  that 
she  had  the  most  beautiful  hand  in  the  world, 
whence  the  volume  of  poems  written  by  her  lover 
in  her  praise,  is  entitled,  La  Bella  Mano,  the  fair 
hand.  Conti  lived  some  years  later  than  Petrarch. 
I  mention  him  merely  to  fill  up  the  list  of  those 
anoint  minor  poets  of  Italy,  whose  names  and 
are  still  celebrated. 


LAURA  56 

CHAPTER  VI. 

LAURA. 

THERE  are  some  who  doubt  the  reality  of  Pe- 
trarch's love,  because  it  is  expressed  in  numbers ; 
and  others,  refining  on  this  doubt,  profess  even  to 
question  whether  his  Laura  ever  existed,  except  in 
the  imagination  and  poetry  of  her  lover.  The 
first  objection  could  only  be  made  by  the  most  pro- 
saic of  commentators — some  true  "  black-letter 
dog,"  * — who  had  dustified  and  mystified  his  facul- 
ties among  old  parchments.  The  most  real  and 
most  fervent  passion  that  ever  fell  under  my  own 
knowledge,  was  revealed  in  verse,  and  very  exqui- 
site verse  too,  and  has  inspired  many  an  effusion, 
full  of  beauty,  fancy,  and  poetry  ;  but  it  has  not, 
therefore,  been  counted  less  sincere ;  and  Heaven 
forbid  it  should  prove  less  lasting  than  if  it  had 
been  told  in  the  homeliest  prose,  and  had  never 
inspired  one  beautiful  idea  or  one  rapturous  verse ! 

To  study  Petrarch  in  his  own  works,  and  in  his 
own  delightful  language ;  to  follow  him  line  by  line 
through  all  the  vicissitudes  and  contradictions  of 
passion ;  to  listen  to  his  self-reproaches,  his  terrors, 
his  regrets,  his  conflicts ;  to  dwell  on  his  exquisite 
delineations  of  individual  character  and  peculiar 
beauty,  his  simple  touches  of  profound  pathos  and 

*  See  Pursuits  of  Literature 


60  LAURA. 

melancholy  tenderness; — and  then  believe  all  to 
be  mere  invention, — the  coinage  of  the  brain, — a 
tissue  of  visionary  fancies,  in  which  the  heart  had 
no  share ;  to  confound  him  with  the  cold  metaphys- 
ical rhymesters  of  a  later  age, — seems  to  argue 
not  only  a  strange  want  of  judgment,  but  an  ex- 
traordinary obtuseness  of  feeling.* 

The  faults  of  taste  of  which  Petrarch  has  been 
accused  over  and  over  again,  by  those  who  seem  to 
have  studied  him  as  Voltaire  studied  Shakspeare, 
— his  concetti — his  fanciful  adoration  of  the'  laurel, 
as  the  emblem  of  Laura — his  playing  on  the  words 
Laura,  L'aura,  and  Lauro,  his  freezing  flames  and 
burning  ice, — I  abandon  to  critics,  and  let  them 
make  the  best  of  them,  as  defects  in  what  were 
else  perfection. 

These  were  the  fashion  of  the  day:,  a  great 
genius  may  outrun  his  times,  but  not  without  bear- 
ing about  him  some  ineffaceable  impressions  of  the 
manners  and  characters  of  the  age  in  which  he 
lived.  He  is  too  witty — "  II  a  trop  d'esprit,"  to  be 
sincere,  say  the  critics, — "  he  has  a  conceit  left  him 
in  his  misery, — a  miserable  conceit ; "  but  we 

*  In  a  private  letter  of  Petrarch  to  the  Bishop  of  Lombes,  oc- 
curs the  following  passage— (the  Bishop,  it  appears,  had  rallied 
him  on  the  subject  of  his  attachment.)  "  Would  to  God  that  my 
Laura  were  indeed  but  an  imaginary  person,  and  my  passion  fo; 
her  but  sport! — Alas!  it  is  rather  a  madness! — hard  would  it 
have  been,  and  painful,  to  feign  so  long  a  time — and  what  extrav- 
agance to  play  such  a  farce  in  the  world !  No !  we  may  coun- 
terfeit the  action  and  voice  of  a  sick  man,  but  not  the  palenesi 
Rnd  wasted  looks  of  the  sufferer;  and  how  often  have  you  wit 
oessed  both  in  me."  Sade,  vol.  i.  p.  281. 


LAURA.  61 

know— at  least  /know — how  in  the  very  extremity 
of  passion  the  soul  can  mock  at  itself— how  the 
fancy  can,  with  a  bitter  and  exaggerated  gayety, 
sport  with  the  heart !  These  are  faults  of  compo- 
sition in  the  writer,  and  admitted  to  be  such ;  but 
they  prove  nothing  against  the  man,  the  poet,  or 
the  lover.  The  reproach  of  monotony,  I  confess  I 
never  could  understand.  It  is  rather  matter  of 
astonishment,  how,  in  a  collection  of  nearly  four 
hundred  poems,  all,  with  one  or  two  exceptions, 
turning  upon  the  same  subject  and  sentiment,  the 
poet  has  poured  forth  such  an  endless  and  redun- 
dant variety,  both  of  thought  and  feeling — how 
from  the  wide  universe,  the  changeful  face  of  all 
beautiful  nature,  the  treasures  of  antique  learning, 
and,  above  all,  from  his  own  overflowing  heart,  he 
has  drawn  those  lovely  pictures,  allusions,  situa- 
tions, sentiments,  and  reflections,  which  have,  in- 
deed, been  stolen,  borrowed,  imitated,  worn  thread- 
bare by  succeeding  poets,  but  in  him  were  the 
fresh  and  spontaneous  effusions  of  profound  feeling 
and  luxuriant  fancy.  Schlegel  very  justly  ob- 
serves, that  the  impression  of  monotony  may  arise 
from  our  considering  at  one  view,  and  bound  up 
in  one  volume,  a  long  series  of  poems,  which  were 
written  in  the  course  of  many  years,  at  different 
times  and  on  different  occasions.  Laura  herself,  he 
avers,  would  certainly  have  been  ennuyee  to  death 
with  her  own  praises,  if  she  had  been  obliged  to  read 
over,  at  one  sitting,  all  the  verses  which  her  lovef 
loinposed  on  her  charms  ;  and  I  agree  with  him. 


62  LAURA. 

It  appears  to  me  that  the  very  impression  of 
Petrarch's  individual  character,  and  the  circum* 
stances  of  his  life,  on  the  whole  mass  of  bis  poetry, 
are  evidence  of  the  truth  of  his  attachment,  and 
the  reality  of  its  object.  He  was  by  nature  a 
poet ;  his  love  was,  therefore,  poetical :  he  loved 
"  in  numbers,  for  the  numbers  came."  He  was  an 
accomplished  scholar  in  a  pedantic  age, — and  his 
love  is,  therefore,  illustrated  by  such  comparisons 
and  turns  of  thought  as  were  allied  to  his  habitual 
studies.  He  had  a  fertile  and  playful  fancy,  and 
his  love  is  adorned  by  all  the  luxuriance  of  his 
imagination.  He  had  been  educated  for  the  pro- 
fession of  the  Civil  Law,  "  per  vender  parole  anzi 
mensogne," — to  sell  words  and  lies,  as  he  disdain- 
fully expressed  it, — and  his  love  is  mixed  up  with 
subtile  reasonings  on  his  own  hapless  state.  He 
was  a  philosopher,  and  it  is  tinged  with  the  mystic 
reveries  of  Platonism,  the  favorite  and  fashionable 
philosophy  of  the  age.  He  was  deeply  religious, 
and  the  strain  of  devotional  and  moral  feelin<> 

O 

which  mingles  with  that  of  passion,  or  of  grief, — 
his  fears  lest  the  excess  of  his  earthly  affections 
should  interfere  with  his  eternal  salvation,  his  con- 
tinual allusions  to  his  faith,  to  a  future  existence, 
and  the  nothingness  and  vanity  of  the  world, — are 
not  so  many  proofs  of  his  profaneness,  but  of  his  sin- 
cerity. He  was  suspicious,  irritable,  and  suscepti- 
ble ;  subject  to  quick  transitions  of  feeling ;  raised 
by  a  word  to  hope — plunged  by  a  glance  into  de- 
•pair;  just  such  a  finely-toned  instrument  as  a 


LAURA.  63 

woman  loves  to  play  on ; — and  all  this  we  have  set 
forth  in  the  contradictions,  the  self-reproaches,  the 
little  daily  vicissitudes  which  are  events  and  revo- 
lutions in  a  life  of  passion  ;  a  life  which,  when  ex- 
hibited in  the  rich  and  softening  tints  of  poetry, 
has  all  the  power  of  strong  interest,  united  to 
the  charm  of  harmony  and  expression  ;  but  in  the 
reality,  and  in  plain  prose,  cannot  be  contemplated 
without  a  painful  compassion.  "  The  day  may 
perhaps  come,"  says  Petrarch  in  one  of  his  familiar 
letters,*  "  when  I  shall  have  calmness  enough  to 
contemplate  all  the  misery  of  my  soul,  to  examine 
my  passion,  not,  however,  that  I  may  continue  to 
love  her — but  that  I  may  love  thee  alone,  O  my 
God !  But  at  this  day,  how  many  obstacles  have  I 
yet  to  surmount,  how  many  efforts  have  I  yet  to 
make !  I  no  longer  love  as  I  did  love,  but  still  I 
love ;  I  love  in  spite  of  myself — in  lamentations 
and  in  tears.  I  will  hate  her — no ! — I  must  still 
love  her!"  Sevon  years  afterwards  he  writes, — 
"  my  love  is  extreme,  but  it  is  exclusive  and  virtu- 
ous— virtuous ! — no ! — this  disquietude,  these  suspi- 
cions, these  transports,  this  watchfulness,  this  utter 
weariness  of  every  thing,  are  not  signs  of  a  virtu- 
ous love ! "  What  a  picture  of  an  impassioned  and 
distracted  heart ! 

***** 

And  who  was  this  Laura,  the  illustrious  object 
of  a  passion  which  has  filled  the.wide  universe  from 
side  to  side  with  her  name  and  fame  ?     What  was 
*  Quoted  by  Foscolo. 


64  LAURA, 

her  station,  her  birth,  her  lineage?  What  were 
her  transcendent  qualities  of  person,  heart,  and 
mind,  that  she  should  have  swayed,  with  such  des- 
potic and  distracting  power,  one  of  the  sovereign 
spirits  of  the  age  ?  Is  it  not  enough  that  we  ac- 
knowledge her  to  have  been  Petrarch's  love — as 
chaste  as  fair  ? 

And  whether  coldness,  pride,  or  virtue,  dignify 
A  woman,  so  she  is  good,  what  does  it  signify  ? 

In  the  present  case,  it  signifies  much ; — we  are 
not  to  be  put  off  with  a  witty  or  satirical  couplet : 
• — the  insatiable  curiosity  which  Laura  has  excited 
from  age  to  age — the  volumes  which  have  been 
written  on  the  subject — are  a  proof  of  the  sincerity 
of  her  lover;  for  nothing  but  truth  could  ever 
inspire  this  lasting  and  universal  interest.  But 
without  diving  into  these  dry  disputations,  let 
us  take  Laura's  portrait  from  Petrarch  himself, 
drawn,  it  will  be  said,  by  the  partial  hand 
of  a  poetic  lover : — true ;  but  since  Laura  is  inter- 
esting to  us  from  the  charms  she  possessed  in  his 
eyes,  it  were  unfair  to  seek  her  portraiture  else- 
where. 

Laura  was  of  high  birth  and  station,  though  her 
life  was  spent  in  retirement  and  domestic  cares  • 

In  nobil  sangue,  vita  umile  e  quete. 

Her  father,  Audibert  de  Noves,  was  of  the  haute 
noblesse  of  Avignon,  and  died  in  her  infancy,  leav- 
ing her  a  dowry  of  1000  gold  crowns,  (about 


LAURA.  65 

10,000  pounds,) — a  magnificent  portion  for  those 
times.  She  was  married  at  the  age  of  eighteen  to 
Hugh  de  Sade,  a  man  of  rank  equal  to  her  own,  and 
of  corresponding  age,  but  not  distinguished  by  any 
advantages  either  of  person  or  mind.  The  marriage 
contract  is  dated  in  January,  1325,  two  years  be- 
fore her  first  meeting  with  Petrarch :  and  in  it,  her 
mother,  the  Lady  of  Ermessende,  and  brother 
John  de  Noves,  stipulate  to  pay  the  dower  left  by 
her  father ;  and  also  to  bestow  on  the  bride  two 
magnificent  dresses  for  state  occasions ;  one  of 
green,  embroidered  with  violets  ;  the  other  of  crim- 
son, trimmed  with  feathers.  In  all  the  portraits  of 
Laura  now  extant,  she  is  represented  in  one  of 
these  two  dresses,  and  they  are  frequently  alluded 
to  by  Petrarch.  He  tells  us  expressly,  that  when 
he  first  met  her  at  matins  in  the  Church  of  St. 
Claire,  she  was  habited  in  a  robe  of  green,  spotted 
with  violets.*  Mention  is  also  made  of  a  coronal 
of  silver  with  which  she  wreathed  her  hair  ;  of  her 
necklaces  and  ornaments  of  pearl.  Diamonds  are 
not  once  alluded  to,  because  the  art  of  cutting 
them  had  not  then  been  invented.  From  all  which, 
it  appears,  that  Laura  was  opulent,  and  moved  in 
the  first  class  of  society.  It  was  customary  for 
the  women  of  rank,  in  those  times,  to  dress  with 
extreme  simplicity  on  ordinary  occasions,  but  with 
the  most  gorgeous  splendor  when  they  appeared  in 
public.  There  are  some  beautiful  descriptions  of 
Laura  surrounded  by  her  young  female  compan- 

*  Canz.  XT.    Sonnet  10. 
5 


66  LAURA. 

ions,  divested  of  all  her  splendid  apparel,  in  *. 
simple  white  robe  and  a  few  flowers  in  her  hair- 
but  still  preeminent  over  all  by  her  superior 
loveliness.  From  the  frequent  allusions  to  her 
dress,  and  Petrarch's  angry  apostrophes  to  hex 
mirror,  because  it  assisted  to  heighten  charms  al- 
ready too  destructive,*  we  may  infer  that  Laura 
was  not  unmindful  of  the  cares  of  the  toilet. 

She  was  in  person  a  fair  Madonna-like  beauty, 
with  soft  dark  eyes,  and  a  profusion  of  pale  golden 
hair  parted  on  her  brow,  and  falling  in  rich  curls 
over  her  neck.  He  dwells  on  the  celestial  grace 
of  her  figure  and  movement,  "  1'  andar  celeste." 

Non  era  1'  andar  suo  cosa  mortale 
Ma  d'  angelica  forma. 

He  describes  the  beauty  of  her  hand  in  the  166th 
sonnet, — 

0  bella  man  che  mi  distringi  il  core 
And  the  loveliness  of  her  mouth, — 
La  bella  bocca  angelica. 

The  general  character  of  her  beauty  must  have 
been  pensive,  soft,  unobtrusive,  and  even  some- 
what  languid : 

L'  angelica  sembianza  umile  e  piana — 
L'  atto  mansuetto,  umile  e  tardo— 

the  last  line  is  exquisitely  characteristic.     This  ex> 


LAURA. 


treme  softness  and  repose  must  have  been  far  re- 
moved from  insipidity ;  for  he  dwells  also  on  the 
rare  and  varying  expression  of  her  loveliness 
"  Leggiadria  singolare  e  pellegrina  ; " — the  light- 
ning of  her  smile,  "  II  lampeggiar  dell'  angelico 
riso ; " — and  the  tender  magic  of  her  voice,  which 
was  felt  in  the  inmost  heart,  "  II  cantar  che  nell' 
anima  si  sente."  She  had  a  habit  of  veiling  her 
eyes  with  her  hand,  and  her  looks  were  generally| 
bent  on  the  earth,  "  o  per  umiltade  o  per  orgoglio." 
In  the  portrait  of  Laura,  which  I  saw  at  the  Lau- 
rentian  Library  at  Florence,  the  eyes  have  this 
characteristic  downcast  look.  Her  lover  complains 
also  of  a  veil,  which  she  was  fond  of  wearing. 
Wandering  in  the  country,  one  summer's  day,  he 
sees  a  young  peasant-girl  washing  a  veil  in  the  run- 
ning stream ;  he  recognizes  the  very  texture  which 
had  so  often  intervened  between  him  and  the 
heaven  of  Laura's  beauty,  and  he  trembles  as  if 
he  had  been  in  the  presence  of  Laura  herself. 
This  little  incident  is  the  subject  of  the  first  Mad- 
rigal. 

He  describes  her  dignified  humility,  "  1'  umilt£ 
superba ;  " — her  beautiful  silence,  "  il  bel  tacere ;  " 
« — her  frequent  sighs,  u  i  sospir  soavemente  rotti  ;  " 
-  her  sweet  disdain  and  gentle  repulses,  "  dolci 
sdegni,  placide  repulse  ; " — the  gesture  which  spoke 
without  the  aid  of  words,  "  1'  atto  che  parla  con  si- 
Icnzio."  The  picture,  it  must  be  confessed,  is  most 
finished,  most  delicate,  most  beautiful : — supposino 


68  LAURA. 

more  flattering,  and  more  honorable  to  Laura,  h 
her  lover's  confession  of  the  influence  which  he? 
charming  character  possessed  over  him;  for  it  is 
certain  that  we  owe  to  Laura's  exquisite  purity  of 
mind  and  manners,  the  polished  delicacy  of  the 
homago  Addressed  to  her.  Passing  over,  of  course, 
the  circumstance  of  her  being  a  married  woman, 
and  therefore  not  a  proper  object  of  amorous 
verse, — there  is  not  in  all  the  poetry  she  inspired, 
a  line  of  sentiment  which  angels  might  not  hear 
and  approve.  Petrarch  represents  her  as  express- 
neither  surprise  nor  admiration  at  the  self  sac- 
e  of  Lucretia,  but  only  wondering  that  shame 
and  grief  had  not  anticipated  the  dagger  of  the 
Roman  matron.  He  describes  her  conversation, 
"  pien  d'intelletti  dolci  ed  alti,"  and  her  mind  ever 
serene,  though  her  countenance  was  pensive,  "  in 
aspetto  pensoso,  a  nima  lieta."  He  tells  us  that  she 
had  raised  him  above  all  low-thoughted  cares,  and 
purified  his  heart  from  all  base  desires.  "  I  bless 
the  place,  the  time,  the  hour,  when  I  presumed  to 
lift  my  eyes  upon  her, — I  say,  O  my  soul,  thankful 
shouldst  thou  be  that  hast  been  deemed  worthy  of 
such  high  honor — for  from  her  spring  those  gentle 
thoughts  which  shall  lead  thee  to  aspire  to  the  high- 
est good,  and  to  disdain  all  that  the  vulgar  mind 
desires." 

I'  benedico  il  loco  e  '1  tempo  e  1'  ora 
Che  si  alti  miraron  gli  occhi  miei; 
E  dico:  anima,  assoi  ringraziar  dei 
Che  fosti  a  tanto  onor  degnata  allora 
*  *  *  *  * 


LAURA.  ft* 

Da  lei  ti  vien  1'  amoroso  pensiero 

Che,  mentre  '1  segui  all'  Sommo  ben  t'  invia 

Poco  prezzando  quel  ch'  ogni  uom  desia. 

Every  generous  feeling,  every  noble  and  ele- 
vated sentiment,  every  desire  for  improvement,  ho 
refers  to  her,  and  to  her  only : 

S'  alcun  bel  frutto 

Nasce  di  me,  da  voi  vien  prima  il  seme, 
lo  per  me  son  quasi  un  terreno  asciutto 
Colto  da  voi;  e'l  pregio  e  vostro  in  tutto. 

CANZONE  8. 

He  gives  us  in  a  single  line  the  very  beau 
of  a  female  character,  when  he  tells  us  that 
united  the  highest  intellect  with  the  purest  heart, 
"  In  alto  intelletto  un  puro  core."  He  dwells  with 
rapture  on  her  angelic  modesty,  which  excited  at 
once  his  reverence  and  his  despair ;  but  he  con- 
fesses that  he  still  hopes  something  from  the  pitying 
tenderness  of  her  disposition. — 

Non  e  si  duro  cor,  che  lagrimando, 
Pregando,  amando,  talor  non  si  smova 
Ne  si  freddo  voler,  che  non  si  scalde. 

The  attachment  inspired  by  such  a  woman  was 
not  likely  to  be  lessened  by  absence,  or  removed 
by  death  itself;  and  it  is  certain  that  the  sec- 
ond part  of  the  Canzoniere  of  Petrarch,  written 
\fter  the  death  of  Laura,  is  more  beautiful  than 
the  first  part :  in  a  more  impassioned  style,  a  higher 
tone  of  feeling,  with  far  fewer  faults,  both  of  taste 
and  stvle. 


It  will  be  said  perhaps  that  "  the  picture  of  sw;b 
a  mind  as  Petrarch's,  enslaved  and  distracted  by  a 
dreaming  passion,  employed  even  in  his  declining 
years,  in  writing  and  polishing  love  verses,  is  a 
pitiable  subject  of  contemplation ;  that  if  he  had 
not  left  us  his  Canzoniere,  he  would  probably  have 
performed  some  other  excelling  work  of  genius, 
which  would  have  crowned  him  with  equal  or  su- 
perior glory ;  and  that  if  he  had  never  been  the 
lover  of  Laura,  he  would  have  been  no  less  that 
master-spirit  who  gave  the  leading  impulse  to  the 
age  in  which  he  lived,  by  consecrating  his  life,  his 
energies,  all  his  splendid  talents,  to  the  cultivation  of 
philosophy  and  the  fine  arts,  the  extension  of  learn- 
ing and  liberty,  and  the  general  improvement  of 
mankind." 

I  doubt  this,  ^d  I  appeal  to  Petrarch  himself. 

I  believe  there  is  no  version  into  English  of  the 
48th  Canzone.  If  Lady  Dacre  had  executed  it — 
and  in  the  same  spirit  as  the  "  Chiare,  fresche  e 
dolce  acque,"  and  the  "  Italia  mia,"  the  reader  had 
been  spared  my  abortive  prose  sketch,  which  will 
give  as  just  an  idea  of  the  original  as  a  hasty  pen- 
cilled outline  of  one  of  Titian's  or  Domenichino's 
master-pieces  would  give  us  of  all  the  magic  color- 
ing and  effect  of  their  glorious  and  half-breathing 
creations. 

In  this  Canzone,  Petrarch,  in  a  high  strain  of 
poetic  imagery,  which  takes  nothing  from  the  truth 
or  pathos  of  the  sentiment,  allegorizes  his  own 


situation  and  feelings:  he  represeats  himself  as 
citing  the  Lord  of  Love,  "  Suo  empio  e  dolce  Sig- 
nore,"  before  the  throne  of  Reason,  and  accusing 
him  as  the  cause  of  all  his  sufferings,  sorrows, 
errors,  and  misspent  time.  "  Through  him  (Love) 
I  have  endured,  even  from  the  moment  I  was  first 
beguiled  into  his  power,  such  various  and  such  ex- 
quisite pain,  that  my  patience  has  at  length  been 
exhausted,  and  I  have  abhorred  my  existence.  I 
have  not  only  forsaken  the  path  of  ambition  and 
useful  exertion,  but  even  of  pleasure  and  of  hap- 
piness: I,  who  was  born,  if  I  do  not  deceive  my- 
self, for  far  higher  purposes  than  to  be  a  mere 
amorous  slave  !  Through  him  I  have  been  careless 
of  my  duty  to  Heaven, — negligent  of  myself: — for 
the  sake  of  one  woman  I  forgot  all  else ! — me  mis- 
erable '  What  have  availed  me  all  the  high  and 
precious  gifts  of  Heaven,  th^  talents,  the  genius, 
which  raised  me  above  other  men  ?  My  hairs  are 
changed  to  gray,  but  still  my  heart  changeth  not. 
Hath  he  not  sent  me  wandering  over  the  earth  in 
search  of  repose  ?  hath  he  not  driven  me  from  city 
to  city,  and  through  forests,  and  wrods,  and  wild 
solitudes  ?  *  hath  he  not  deprived  me  of  peace, 
and  of  that  sleep  which  no  herbs  nor  chanted  spells 
have  power  to  restore  ?  Through  him,  I  have 
become  a  by-word  in  the  world,  which  I  have  filled 
with  my  lamentations,  till,  by  their  repetition,  ] 
have  wearied  myself,  and  perhaps  all  others." 

*  Foscolo  remarks  the  restless  spirit  which  all  his  life  drove  P» 
*<rarch,  like  a  perturbed  spirit,  from  one  residence  to  another. 


72  LAURA. 

To  this  long  tirade,  Love  with  indignation  ro 
plies :  "  Hearest  thou  the  falsehood  of  this  ungrate* 
ful  man  ?  This  is  he  who  in  his  youth  devoted 
himself  to  the  despicable  traffic  of  words  and  lies, 
and  now  he  blushes  not  to  reproach  me  witli  having 
raised  him  from  obscurity,  to  know  the  delights  of 
an  honorable  and  virtuous  life.  I  gave  him  power 
to  attain  a  height  of  fame  and  virtue  to  which  of 
himself  he  had  never  dared  to  aspire.  If  he  has 
obtained  a  name  among  men,  to  me  he  owes  it 
Let  him  remember  the  great  heroes  and  poets  of 
antiquity,  whose  evil  stars  condemned  them  to 
lavish  their  love  upon  unworthy  objects,  whose 
mistresses  were  courteza^flp  and  slaves ;  while  for 
him,  I  chose  from  the  whole  world  one  lovely 
woman,  so  gifted  by  Heaven  with  all  female  excel- 
lence, that  her  likeness  is  not  to  be  found  beneath 
the  moon, — one  whose  melodious  voice  and  gentle 
accents  had  pOAver  to  banish  from  his  heart  every 
vain,  and  dark,  and  vicious  thought.  These  were 
the  wrongs  of  which  he  complains :  such  is  my 
reward  for  all  I  have  done  for  him, — ungrateful 
man  !  Upon  my  wings  hath  he  soared  upwards, 
till-  his  name  is  placed  among  the  greatest  of  the 
sons  of  song,  and  fair  ladies  and  gentle  knights 
listen  with  delight  to  his  strains  : — had  it  not  been 
for  me,  what  had  he  become  before  now  ?  Per- 
haps a  vain  flatterer,  seeking  preferment  in  a 
Court,  confounded  among  the  herd  of  vuJgar  men  . 
I  have  so  chastened,  so  purified  his  heart  through 
the  heavenly  image  impressed  upon  it,  that  even 


LAURA.  73 

m  his  youth,  and  in  the  age  of  the  passions,  I  pre- 
served him  pure  in  thought  and  in  action ;  *  what- 
ever of  good  or  great  ever  stirred  within  his  breast, 
he  derives  from  her  and  from  me.  From  the  con- 
templation of  virtue,  sweetness,  and  beauty,  in  the 
gracious  countenance  of  her  he  loved,  I  led  him 
upwards  to  the  adoration  of  the  first  Great  Cause, 
the  fountain  of  all  that  is  beautiful  and  excellent  • 
— hath  he  not  himself  confessed  it  V  And  this  fair 
creature,  whom  I  gave  him  to  be  the  honor,  and 
delight,  and  prop  of  his  frail  life" — 

Here  the  sense  is  suddenly  broken  off  in  the 
middle  of  a  line.  Petrarch  utters  a  cry  of  horror, 
and  exclaims — "  Yes,  you  gave  her  to  me,  but  you 
have  also  taken  her  from  me  !  " 

Love  replies  with  sweet  austerity — "  not  I — but 
HE — the  eternal  One — who  hath  willed  it  so  ! " 
*~  After  this,  it  will  be  allowed,  I  think,  that  it  is 
to  Laura  we  OAve  Petrarch ;  and  that  if  the  recom- 
pense she  bestowed  on  him  was  not  exactly  that 
which  he  sought, — yet  in  fame,  in  greatness,  in 
virtue,  and  in  happiness,  she  well  and  richly  repaid 
the  adoration  he  lavished  at  her  feet,  and  the  glo- 
rious wreath  of  song  with  which  he  has  r.ircled  her 
brows ! 


*  Here  Petrarch  seems  to  have  forgotten  himself;  he  was  no 
ilways  ia.naculate. 


CHAPTER  VH. 

LAURA   AND   PETRARCH. 

CONTINUED. 

MUCH  power  of  lively  ridicule,  much  coarse  wit^ 
--principally  French  wit, — has  been  expended  on 
the  subject  of  Laura's  virtue ;  by  those,  I  presume, 
who  under  similar  circumstances  would  have  found 
such  virtue  "  too  painful  an  endeavour."  *  Much 
depraved  ingenuity  has  been  exerted  to  twist  cer- 
tain lines  and  passages  in  the  Canzontere  into  a 
sense  which  shall  blot  with  frailty  the  memory  of 
this  beautiful  and  far-famed  being :  once  believe 


*  Madame  Deshoulieres  speaks  "  avec  connaissance  de  fait," 
and  even  points  out  the  very  spot  in  which  Laura,  "  de  1'arnor- 
eux  Patrarque  adoucit  le  martyre." — Another  French  lady,  who 
piqued  herself  on  being  a  descendant  of  the  family  of  Laura, 
was  extremely  affronted  and  scandalized  when  the  Chevalier 
Ramsay  asserted  that  Petrarch's  passion  was  purely  poetical  and 
platonic,  and  regarded  it  heresy  to  suppose  that  Laura  couM 
have  been  "  ungrateful," — such  was  her  idea  of  feminine  grati- 
tude!— (Spence's  Anecdotes.)  Then  comes  another  French 
woman,  with  the  most  anti-poetical  soul  that  God  ever  placed 
within  the  form  of  a  woman — "  Le  fade  personage  que  votre  Pe- 
trarque !  que  sa  Laure  etait  sotte  et  precieuse !  que  la  Cour  d'- 
Amour  etait  fastidieuse!  "  &c.,  exclaims  the  acute,,  amusing, 
profligate,  heartless  Madame  du  DefTand.  It  must  be  allowed 
that  Petrarch  and  Laura  would  have  been  extremely  displaces  in 
the  Court  of  the  Regent, — the  only  Court  of  Love  with  which 
Madame  du  DeSand  was  acquainted,  and  which  assuredly  was 
ttot  fastidieuse 


these  interpretations,  and  all  the  peculiar  and 
graceful  charm  which  now  hangs  round  her  inter- 
course with  Petrarch  vanishes, — the  reverential 
delicacy  of  the  poet's  homage  becomes  a  mockery, 
and  all  his  exalted  praises  of  her  unequalled  virtue., 
and  her  invincible  chastity,  are  turned  to  satire, 
and  insult  our  moral  feeling. 

But  the  question,  I  believe,  is  finally  set  at  rest, 
and  it  were  idle  to  war  with  epigrams.  All  the 
evidence  that  has  been  collected,  external  and 
internal,  prose  and  poetry,  critical  and  traditional, 
tends  to  prove,  first,  that  Laura  preserved  her  virtue 
to  the  last ;  and  secondly,  that  she  did  not  preserve 
it  unassailed ;  that  Petrarch,  true  to  his  sex, — a  very 
man,  (as  Laura  has  been  called  a  very  woman,*) 
used  at  first  every  art,  every  effort,  every  advan- 
tage, which  his  diversified  accomplishments  of  mind 
and  person  lent  him,  to  destroy  the  very  virtue  he 
adored.  He  only  hints  this  in  his  poetry,  just  suffi- 
ciently to  enhance  the  glory  which  he  has  thrown 
round  his  divinity :  but  he  speaks  more  plainly  in 
prose. 

"  Untouched  by  my  prayers,  unvanquished  by 
my  arguments,  unmoved  by  my  flattery,  she  re- 
mained faithful  to  her  sex's  honor;  she  resisted 
hor  own  young  heart,  and  mine,  and  a  thousand, 
thousand,  thousand  things,  which  must  have  con- 
quered any  other.  She  remained  unshaken.  A 
woman  taught  me  the  duty  of  a  man  !  to  persuade 
me  to  keep  the  path  of  virtue,  her  conduct  was  at 
once  an  example  and  a  reproach ;  and  when  she 


76  LAURA. 

beheld  me  break  through  all  bounds,  and  rush 
blindly  to  the  precipice,  she  had  the  courage  to 
abandon  me,  rather  than  follow  me."  * 

But  whether,  in  this  long  conflict,  Laura  pre- 
served her  heart  untouched,  as  well  as  her  virtue 
immaculate ;  whether  she  shared  the  love  she  in- 
spired ;  or  whether  she  escaped  from  the  captivating 
assiduities  and  intoxicating  homage  of  her  lover, 
"fancy-free  ;  " — whether  coldness,  or  prudence,  or 
pride,  or  virtue,  or  the  mere  heartless  love  of  ad- 
miration, or  a  mixture  of  all  together,  dictated  her 
conduct,  is  at  least  as  well  worth  inquiry,  as  the 
exact  color  of  her  eyes,  or  the  form  of  her  nose 
upon  which  we  have  pages  of  grave  discussion. 
She  might  have  been  coquette  par  instinct,  if  not 
par  calcul ;  she  might  have  felt,  with  feminine 
tacte,  that  to  preserve  her  influence  over  Petrarch, 
it  was  necessary  to  preserve  his  respect.  She  was 
evidently  proud  of  her  conquest :  she  had  else 
been  more  or  less  than  woman ;  and  at  every 
hazard,  but  that  of  self-respect,  she  was  resolved 
to  retain  him.  If  Petrarch  absented  himself  for  a 
few  days,  he  was  generally  better  treated  on  his 
return.f  If  he  avoided  her,  then  her  eye  followed 
him  with  a  softer  expression.  When  he  looked 
pale  from  sickness  of  heart  and  agitation  of  spirits, 

*  From  the  Dialogues  with  St.  Augustin,  as  quoted  in  thfl 
"Pieces  Justificatives,"  and  by  G5nguen6  (Hist.  Litt.  vol.  iii. 
not«s.)  These  imaginary  dialogues  are  a  series  of  Confessionl 
not  intended  for  publication  by  Petrarch,  but  now  printed  witlj 
bis  prose  works. 

t  Sonnet  39 


LAURA.  7  7 

Laura  would  address  him  with  a  few  words  of 
pitying  tenderness.  He  thanks  her  in  (hose  ex- 
quisite linos,  which  seem  to  glow  with  all  the  reno- 
vation of  hope, 

Volgendo  gli  occhi  al  mio  novo  colore 
Che  fa  di  morte  rimembrar  le  gente 
Pieta  vi  mosse,  onde  beniguamente 
Salutando  teneste  in  vita  il  core. 

La  frale  vita  ch'  ancor  meco  alberga, 
Fu  de1  begli  occhi  vostri  aperto  dono, 
E  della  voce  angelica  soave!* 

He  presumes  upon  this  benignity,  and  is  again 
dashed  back  with  frowns.  He  flies  to  solitude, — 
solitude  ! — Never  let  the  proud  and  torn  heart, 
wrung  with  the  sense  of  injury,  and  sick  with  un- 
requited passion,  seek  that  worst  resource  against 
pain,  for  there  grief  grows  by  contemplation  of 
itself,  and  every  feeling  is  sharpened  by  collision 
Petrarch  sought  to  "  mitigate  the  fever  of  his 
heart"  amid  the  shades  of  Vaucluse,  a  spot  so 
gloomy  and  so  solitary,  that  his  very  servants  for- 
sook him ;  and  Vaucluse,  its  fountains,  its  forests, 
and  its  hanging  cliffs,  reflected  only  the  image  of 
Laura. 

L'acque  parlan  d'amore,  e  1'aura,  e  i  rami 
E  gli  augeletti,  e  i  pesci  e  i  fiori  e  1'erba  ; 
Tutti  insieme  pregando  ch'  io  sempr'  amilf 

*  Ballata  5. 

1  Petrarch  withdrew  to  Vaucluse  in  1337,  and  spent  thre« 
fears  in  entire  solitude.  He  commenced  his  journey  to  Rome  io 
i341,  abo-it  fourteen  years  after  his  first  interview  with  Laura. 


78  LAURA. 

He  is  driven  again  to  her  feet  by  his  own  insup- 
portable thoughts — and  in  terror  of  himself : — 

Tal  paura  ho  di  ritrovarmi  solo ! 

He  endeavours  to  maintain  in  her  presence  thai 
self-constraint  she  had  enjoined.  He  assumes  a 
cold  and  calm  deportment,  and  Laura,  as  she 
passes  him,  whispers  in  a  tone  of  gentle  reproach, 
"  Petrarch  !  are  you  so  soon  weary  of  loving  me  ?  * 
(ten  or  eleven  years  of  adoration  were,  in  truth, 
nothing — to  signify  /)  At  length,  he  resolved  to 
leave  Laura  and  Avignon  forever ;  and  instead  of 
plunging  into  solitude,  to  seek  the  wiser  resource 
of  travel  and  society.  He  announced  this  inten- 
tion to  Laura,  and  bade  her  a  long  farewell ;  eithei 
through  surprise,  or  grief,  or  the  fear  of  losing  her 
glorious  captive,  she  turned  exceedingly  pale,  a 
cloud  overspread  her  beautiful  countenance,  and 
she  fixed  her  eyes  on  the  ground.  This  was  to  "her 
lover  an  intoxicating  moment:  in  the  exultation 
of  sudden  delight,  he  interpreted  these  symptoms 
of  relenting,  this  "  vago  impallidir,"  too  favorably 
to  himself.  "  She  bent  those  gentle  eyes  upon  the 
earth,  which  in  their  sweet  silence  said, — to  me  at 
least  they  seemed  to  say, — '  who  takes  my  faithful 
friend  so  far  from  me  ?  ' " 

Chinava  a  terra  il  bel  guardo  gentile, 
E  tacendo  dicea,  com'  a  me  parve — 
"  Chi  m'  allontana  il  mio  fedele  amico?  " 

On  his  return  to  Avignon,  a  few  months  after- 
wards, Laura  received  him  with  evident  pleasure 


LAURA,  79 

but  lie  is  not,  therefore,  more  avanfd ;  all  this  was 
t  probably  the  refined  coqetterie  of  a  woman  of 
calm  passions ;  but  not  heartless,  not  really  in- 
different to  the  devotion  she  inspired,  nor  ungrate- 
ful for  it. 

Petrarch  has  himself  left  us  a  most  minute  and 
interesting  description  of  the  whole  course  of 
Laura's  conduct  towards  him,  which  by  a  beautiful 
figure  of  poetry  he  has  placed  in  her  own  mouth. 
The  passage  occurs  in  the  TRIONFO  DI  MORTE, 
beginning,  "  La  notte  che  segui  1'orribil  caso." 

The  apparition  of  Laura  descending  on  the  morn- 
ing dew,  bright  as  the  opening  dawn,  and  crowned 
with  Oriental  gems, 

Di  gemme  oriental!  incoronata, 

appears  before  her  lover,  and  addresses  him  with 
compassionate  tenderness.  After  a  short  dialogue, 
full  of  poetic  beauty  and  noble  thoughts,*  Pe- 
trarch conjures  her,  in  the  name  of  heaven  and  of 
truth,  to  tell  him  whether  the  pity  she  sometimes 
expressed  for  him  was  allied  to  love  ?  for  that  the 
sweetness  she  mingled  with  her  disdain  and  re- 
serve— the  soft  looks  with  which  she  tempered  her 
anger,  had  left  him  for  long  years  in  doubt  of  her 
real  sentiments,  still  doating,  still  suspecting,  still 
hoping  without  end : 

*  Petrarch  asks  her  whether  it  was  "  pain  to  die?  "  she  replies 
hi  those  fine  lines  which  have  been  quoted  a  thousand  times : 

La  Morte  e  fin  d'una  prigion  oscvua 
Agli  animi  gentili;  agli  altri  e  noia, 
Ch'  lianno  posto  nel  fango  ogni  lor  curs- 


80  LAURA. 

Creovvi  amor  pensier  mai  nella  testa, 
D'  aver  pieta  del  mio  lungo  martire 
Non  lasciando  vostr'  alta  impresa  onesta? 

Che  vostri  dolci  sdegni  e  le  dole'  ire — 
Le  dolci  paci  ne'  begli  ocelli  scritte — 
Tenner  molt'  anni  in  dubbio  il  mio  desire. 

She  replies  evasively,  with  a  sinile  and  a  sigh,  that 
her  heart  was  ever  with  him,  but  that  to  preserve 
her  own  fair  fame,  and  the  virtue  of  both,  it  was  ne- 
cessary to  assume  the  guise  of  severity  and  disdain. 
She  describes  the  arts  with  which  she  kept  alive 
his  passion,  now  checking  his  presumption  with  the 
most  frigid  reserve,  and  when  she  saw  him  droop- 
ing, as  a  man  ready  to  die,  "  all  fancy-sick  and 
pale  of  cheer,"  gently  restoring  him  with  soft 
looks  and  kind  words  : 

"  Salvando  la  tua  vita  e'l  nostro  onore." 

She  confesses  the  delight  she  felt  in  being  be- 
loved, and  the  pride  she  took  in  being  sung  by  so 
great  a  poet.  She  reminds  him  of  one  particular 
occasion,  when  seated  by  her  side,  and  they  were 
left  alone,  he  sang  to  his  lute  a  song  composed  to 
her  praise,  beginning,  "  Dir  piu  non  osa  il  nostro 
amore ;"  and  she  asks  him  whether  he  did  not  per- 
ceive that  the  veil  had  then  nearly  fallen  from  her 
heart  ?* 

*  Ma  non  si  ruppe  almen  ogni  vel  quando 
Sola  i  tuoi  detti,  te  presente  accolsi 
"  Dir  piil  non  osa  il  nostrt  amor,"  cantando. 

(The  song  here  alluded  to  is  not  preserved  in  Petrarch's  works 
•nd  the  expression  "  il  no&tro  amore,"  is  very  remarkable.) 


LAURA.  81 

She  laments,  in  some  exquisite  lines,  that  she 
had  not  the  happiness  to  be  born  in  Italy,  the 
native  country  of  her  lover,  and  yet  allows  that 
the  land  must  needs  be  fair  in  which  she  first  won 
\is  aflection. 

Duolmi  ancor  veramente,  ch'io  non  nacqni 
Almen  piii  presso  al  tuo  fiorito  nido ! — 
Ma  assai  fu  bel  paese  ov'  io  ti  piacqui. 

In  another  passage  we  have  a  sentiment  evi- 
dently taken  from  nature,  and  exquisitely  graceful 
and  feminine.  "  You,"  says  Laura,  "  proclaimed 
to  all  men  the  passion  you  felt  for  me :  you  called 
aloud  for  pity :  you  kept  not  the  tender  secret  for 
me  alone,  but  took  a  pride  and  a  pleasure  in  pub- 
lishing it  forth  to  the  world  ;  thus  constraining  me, 
by  all  a  woman's  fear  and  modesty,  to  be  silent." — 
"  But  not  less  is  the  pain  because  we  conceal  it  in 
the  depths  of  the  heart,  nor  the  greater  because 
we  lament  aloud ;  fiction  and  poetry  can  add 
nothing  to  truth,  nor  yet  take  from  it." 

Tu  eri  di  merce  chiamar  gia  roco 
Quand'  io  tacea ;  perche  vergogna  e  tema' 
Facean  molto  desir,  parer  si  poco; 
Non  e  minor  il  duol  perch'  altri  '1  prema, 
Ne  maggior  per  andarsi  lamentando : 
Per  fizion  non  cresce  il  ver,  ne  sccma. 

Petrarch,  then  all  trembling  and  in  tears,  ex- 
claims, "that  could  he  but  believe  he  had  been 
dear  to  her  eyes  as  to  her  heart,  he  were  suffi- 


82  LAURA. 

ciently  recompensed  for  all  his  sufferings ,"'  and 
she  replies,  "  that  will  I  never  reveal !  "  ("  quello 
mi  taccio")  By  this  coquettish  and  characteristic 
answer,  we  are  still  left  in  the  dark.  Such  was  the 
sacred  respect  in  which  Petrarch  held  her  he  so 
loved,  that  though  he  evidently  wishes  to  believe — 
perhaps  did  believe,  that  he  had  touched  her  heart, 
he  would  not  presume  to  insinuate  what  Laura  had 
never  avowed.  The  whole  scene,  though  less  pol- 
ished in  the  versification  than  some  of  his  sonnets, 
is  written  throughout  with  all  the  flow  and  fervor 
of  real  feeling.  It  received  the  poet's  last  correc- 
tions twenty-six  years  after  Laura's  death,  and  but 
a  few  weeks  previous  to  his  own. 

***** 

When  at  Milan,  I  was  taken,  as  a  matter  of 
course,  to  visit  the  Ambrosian  library.  At  the 
time  I  was  in  ill  health,  dejected  and  indifferent ; 
and  I  only  remember  being  led  in  passive  resigna- 
tion from  room  to  room,  and  called  upon  to  admire 
a  vast  variety  of  objects,  at  the  moment  when  1 
was  pining  for  rest ;  when  to  look,  think,  speak,  or 
move,  was  pain, — when  to  sit  motionless  and  to 
gaze  out  upon  the  sunshine,  seemed  to  me  the  only 
supreme  blessedness.  In  such  moments  as  these, 
we  can  have  sympathies  with  nature,  but  not  with 
old  books  and  antiquities.  I  '»ave  a  most  confused 
recollection  both  of  the  locality  and  the  contents 
of  this  famous  collection ;  but  there  were  two 
objects  which  roused  me  from  this  sullen  stupor, 
und  indelibly  impressed  my  imagination  and  my 


LAURA.  83 

memory ;  and  one  of  these  was  the  celebrated  copy 
of  Virgil,  which  had  been  the  favorite  companion 
and  constant  study  of  Petrarch,  containing  that 
memorandum  of  the  death  of  Laura,  in  his  own 
handwriting,  which,  after  much  expenditure  of 
paper,  and  argument,  and  critical  abuse,  is  at 
length  admitted  to  be  genuine.  I  knew  little  of 
tho  controversy  this  famous  inscription  had  occa- 
sioned in  Italy, — though  I  was  aware  that  its 
authenticity  had  been  disputed  :  but  as  a  homely 
proverb  saith,  seeing  is  believing  ;  to  look  upon  the 
handwriting  with  my  own  eyes,  would  have  made 
assurance  doubly  sure,  if  in  that  moment  I  needed 
such  assurance.  I  do  not  remember  reasoning  or 
doubting  on  the  subject; — but  gushing  up  like  the 
waters  of  an  intermitting  fountain,  there  was  a 
sudden  flow  of  feeling  and  memory  came  over  my 
heart :— I  stood  for  some  moments  silently  contem- 
plating the  name  of  LAURA,  in  the  pale,  half- 
effaced  characters  traced  by  the  hand  of  her  lover ; 
that  name  with  which  his  genius  and  his  love  have 
filled  the  earth :  confused  thoughts  of  the  mingling 
of  vanity  and  glory, — of  the  "  poco  polvere  che 
nulla  sente,"  and  the  immortality  of  deified  beauty, 
were  crowded  in  my  mind.  When  all  were  gone, 
I  turned  back,  and  gave  the  guide  a  small  gratuity 
to  be  allowed  to  do  homage  to  the  name  of  Laura, 
by  pressing  my  lips  upon  it.  The  reader  smiles  at 
this  sentimental  enthusiasm ;  so  would  I,  if  time 
had  not  taught  me  to  respect,  as  well  as  regret, 
what  it  has  taken  from  me,  and  never  can  restore. 


84  LAURA. 

The  memorandum  has  often  been  quoted  •  but 
this  account  of  the  love  of  Petrarch  would  not  be 
complete  were  it  omitted  here.  It  runs  literally 
thus  :— 

"  Laura,  illustrious  by  her  own  virtues,  and  long 
celebrated  by  my  verses,  I  beheld  for  the  first  time, 
in  my  early  youth,  on  the  6th  of  April,  1327,  about 
the  first  hour  of  the  day,  in  the  church  of  Saint 
Claire  in  Avignon :  and  in  the  same  city,  in  the 
same  month  of  April,  the  same  day  and  hour,  in 
the  year  1348,  this  light  of  my  life  was  withdrawn 
from  the  world  while  I  was  at  Verona,  ignorant, 
alas !  of  what  had  befallen  me.  The  terrible  intelli- 
gence was  conveyed  in  a  letter  from  Louis  and 
reached  me  at  Parma-  the  19th  of  May,  early  in 
the  morning. 

"  Her  chaste  and  beautiful  remains  were 
deposited  the  same  day  after  vespers,  in  the 
Church  of  the  Fratri  Minori,  (Cordeliers.)  Her 
spirit,  as  Seneca  said  of  Scipio  Africanus,*  has 
returned,  doubtless,  to  that  heaven  whence  it 
(same. 

"  To  preserve  the  memory  of  this  afflicting  loss, 
it  is  with  a  bitter  pleasure  I  record  it  he'-e,  in  this 
book  which  is  ever  before  my  eyes,  that  nothing  in 
this  world  may  hereafter  delight  me  ;  and  that  the 
'jhief  tie  which  bound  me  to  life  being  broken,  I 

*  This  sounds  at  first  pedantic ;  but  it  must  be  remembered 
that  at  this  very  time  Petrarch  was  studying  Seneca  and  writing 
u  Latin  poem  on  the  history  of  Scipio :  thus  the  ideas  were  fresfc 
'n  his  mind. 


LAURA.  85 

may,  by  frequently  looking  on  these  words,  and 
thinking  on  this  transitory  existence,  be  prepared 
to  quit  this  earthly  Babylon,  which,  with  the  help 
of  the  divine  grace,  and  the  constant  and  manly 
recollection  of  those  fruitless  desires,  and  vain 
hopes,  and  sad  vicissitudes  which  have  so  long  agi- 
tated me,  will  be  an  easy  task." 

Laura  died  of  the  plague,  which  then  desolated 
Avignon,  and  terminated  the  life  of  the  sufferer 
on  the  third  day.  The  moment  she  was  seized 
with  the  fatal  symptoms,  she  dictated  her  will ;  and 
notwithstanding  the  pestilential  nature  of  her 
disorder,  she  was  surrounded  to  the  last  by  her 
numerous  relations  and  friends,  who  braved  death 
rather  than  forsake  her. 

Her  tomb  was  discovered  and  opened  in  1533,  in 
the  presence  of  Francis  the  First,  whose  celebrated 
stanzas  on  the  occasion  are  well  known. 

Of  the  fame,  which  even  in  her  lifetime,  the 
love  and  poetical  adoration  of  Petrarch  had  thrown 
round  his  Laura,  a  curious  instance  is  given  which 
will  characterize  the  manners  of  the  age.  When 
Charles  of  Luxemburgh  (afterwards  Emperoi*) 
was  at  Avignon,  a  grand  fete  was  given  in  his 
honor,  at  which  all  the  noblesse  were  present.  He 
desired  that  Petrarch's  Laura  should  be  pointed 
out  to  him ;  and  when  she  was  introduced,  he 
made  a  sign  with  his  hand  that  the  other  ladies 
present  should  fall  back  ;  then  going  up  to  Laura, 
*nd  for  a  moment  contemplating  her  with  interest, 
he  kissed  her  respectfully  on  the  forehead  <ind  on 


86  LAURA. 

the  eyelids.  Petrarch  alludes  to  this  incident  in 
the  201st  sonnet,  the  last  line  of  which  shows  that 
this  royal  salutation  was  considered  singular. 

"  M'  empia  d'invidia  1'  atto  dolce  e  strauo." 

Petrarch  survived  her  twenty-six  years,  dying  in 
1374.  He  was  found  lifeless  one  morning  in  his 
study,  his  hand  resting  on  a  book. 

***** 

The  inferences  I  draw  from  this  rapid  sketch 
are,  first,  that  Laura  was  virtuous,  but  not  insensi- 
ble ; — for  had  she  been  facile,  she  would  not  have 
preserved  her  lover's  respect ;  had  she  been  a 
heartless  trifler,  she  could  not  have  retained  his 
love,  nor  deserved  his  undying  regrets :  and 
secondly,  that  if  Petrarch  had  not  attached  himself 
fervently  to  this  beautiful  and  pure-hearted  woman, 
he  would  have  employed  his  splendid  talents  like 
other  men  of  his  time.  He  might  then  have  left 
us  theological  treatises  and  Latin  epics,  which  the 
worms  would  have  eaten;  he  might  have  risen 
high  in  the  church  or  state ;  have  become  a  bold 
intriguing  priest;  a  politic  archbishop, — a  cardi- 
nal,— a  pope ; — most  worthless  and  empty  titles  aL', 
compared  with  that  by  which  he  has  descended  to 
us,  as  Petrarch,  the  poet  and  lover  of  Laura  !* 

*  The  hypothesis  I  have  assumed  relative  to  Laura's  character, 
her  married  state,  and  the  authenticity  of  the  MS.  note  in  the 
Virgil,  have  not  been  lightly  adopted,  but  from  deep  conviction 
and  patient  examination:  but  this  is  not  the  place  to  Bet  argu- 
ments  and  authorities  in  array — Ginguene  and  Gibbon  against 
Lord  Byron  and  Fraser  Tytler.  I  am  surprised  at  the  ground 


87 


CHAPTER  VTIL 

•  ON  THE  LOVE  OF  DANTE  FOR  BEATRICE 
PORTINARI. 

HAD  I  taken  chronology  into  due  consideration, 
Dante  ought  to  have  preceded  Petrarch,  having 
been  born  some  forty  years  before  him, — but  I  for- 
got it.  "  Truth,"  says  Wordsworth,  "  has  her 
pleasure-grounds, 

Lord  Byron  has  taken  on  the  question.  As  for  his  characteristic 
sneer  on  the  assertion  of  M.  de  Bastie,  who  had  said  truly  and 
beautifully — "  qu'il  n'y  a  que  la  vertu  seule  qui  soit  capable  de 
faire  des  impressions  que  la  mort  n'efface  pas,"  I  disdain,  in  iny 
feminine  character,  to  reply  to  it ;  I  will  therefore  borrow  the  elo- 
quence of  a  more  powerful  pen : — "  The  love  of  a  man  like 
Petrarch,  would  have  been  less  in  character  if  it  had  been  less 
ideal.  For  the  purposes  of  inspiration,  a  single  interview  was 
quite  sufficient.  The  smile  which  sank  into  his  heart  the  first 
time  he  ever  beheld  Laura,  played  round  her  lips  ever  after;  the 
look  with  which  her  eyes  first  met  his,  never  passed  away.  The 
image  of  his  mistress  still  haunted  his  mind,  and  was  recalled  by 
every  object  in  nature.  Even  death  could  not  dissolve  the  fine 
illusion ;  for  that  which  exists  in  the  imagination  is  alone  imper- 
ishable. As  our  feelings  become  more  ideal,  the  impression  of  the 
noment  indeed  becomes  less  violent;  but  the  effect  is  more 
general  and  permanent.  The  blow  is  felt  only  by  reflection ;  it  is 
the  rebound  that  is  fatal.  We  are  not  here  standing  up  for  this 
kind  of  Platonic  attachment,  but  only  endeavoring  to  explain  the 
way  in  which  the  passions  very  commonly  operate  in  minds 
accustomed  to  draw  their  strongest  interest  from  constant  contem- 
plation." Edinburgh  Review. 


88  BEATRICE. 

Her  haunts  of  ease 

And  easy  contemplation ; — gay  parterres 
And  labyrinthine  walks ;  her  sunny  glades 
And  shady  groves  for  recreation  framed." 

And  such  a  haunted  pleasure-ground  of  beautiful 
recollections,  would  I  wish  my  subject  to  be  to  my- 
self and  to  my  readers ;  where  we  shall  be  privi- 
leged to  wander  at  will ;  to  pause  or  turn  back  ;  to 
deviate  to  this  side  or  to  that,  as  memory  may 
prompt,  or  imagination  lead,  or  illustration  require. 
Dante  and  his  Beatrice  are  best  exhibited  in 
contrast  to  Petrarch  and  Laura.  Petrarch  was  in 
his  youth  an  amiable  and  accomplished  courtier, 
whose  ambition  was  to  cultivate  the  arts,  and  please 
1he  fair.  Dante,  early  plunged  into  the  factions 
which  distracted  his  native  city,  was  of  a  stern 
commanding  temper,  mingling  study  with  action. 
Petrarch  loved  with  all  the  vivacity  of  his  temper  ; 
he  took  a  pleasure  in  publishing,  in  exaggerating, 
in  embellishing  his  passion  in  the  eyes  of  the  world. 
Dante,  capable  of  strong  and  enthusiastic  tender- 
ness, and  early  concentrating  all  the  affections  of 
his  heart  on  one  object,  sought  no  sympathy ;  and 
solemnly  tells  us  of  himself, — in  contradistinction 
to  those  poets  of  his  time  who  wrote  of  love  from 
fashion  or  fancy,  not  from  feeling, — that  he  wrote 
as  love  inspired,  and  as  his  heart  dictated. 

"  lo  mi  son  un  che,  quando 
Amore  spira,  noto,  ed  in  quel  modo 
Ch'ei  detta  dentro,  vo  significando." 

PURGATORIO,  C.  24 


BEATRICE.  89 

A  coquette  would  have  triumphed  in  such  a 
captive  as  Petrarch  :  and  in  truth,  Laura  seems  to 
have  "  sounded  him  from  the  top  to  the  bottom  of 
his  compass  : " — a  tender  and  impassioned  woman 
would  repose  on  such  a  heart  as  Dante's,  even  as 
his  Beatrice  did.  Petrarch  had  a  gay  and  capti- 
vating exterior ;  his  complexion  was  fair,  with  spark- 
ling blue  eyes  and  a  ready  smile.  He  is  very 
amusing  on  the  subject  of  his  own  coxcombry,  and 
tells  us  how  cautiously  he  used  to  turn  the  corner 
of  a  street,  lest  the  wind  should  disorder  the  elabo- 
rate curls  of  his  fine  hair  !  Dante,  too,  was  in  his 
youth  eminently  handsome,  but  in  a  style  of  beauty 
which  was  characteristic  of  his  mind :  his  eyes  were 
large  and  intensely  black,  his  nose  aquiline,  his 
complexion  of  a  dark  olive,  his  hair  and  beard 
very  much  curled,  his  step  slow  and  measured,  and 
the  habitual  expression  of  his  countenance  grave, 
with  a  tinge  of  melancholy  abstraction.  When 
Petrarch  walked  along  the  streets  of  Avignon,  the 
women  smiled,  and  said,  "  there  goes  the  lover  of 
Laura!"  The  impression  which  Dante  left  on 
those  who  beheld  him,  was  far  different.  Jn  allu- 
sion to  his  own  personal  appearance,  he  used  to 
relate  an  incident  that  once  occurred  to  him. 
When  years  of  persecution  and  exile  had  added  to 
the  natural  sternness  of  his  countenance,  the  deep 
lines  left  by  grief,  and  the  brooding  spirit  of  ven- 
geance, ho  happened  to  be  at  Verona,  where 
eince  the  publication  of  the  Inferno,  he  was  well 
known.  Passing  one  day  by  a  portico,  where 


30  BEATRICE. 

several  women  were  seated,  one  of  them  whispered, 
with  a  look  of  awe, — "  Do  you  see  that  man  V  that 
is  he  who  goes  down  to  hell  whenever  he  pleases, 
and  brings  us  back  tidings  of  the  sinners  below  ! " 
u  Ay,  indeed  !  "  replied  her  companion, — "  very 
likely ;  see  how  his  face  is  scarred  with  fire  and 
brimstone,  and  blackened  with  smoke,  and  how  his 
hair  and  beard  have  been  singed  and  curled  in  the 
flames ! " 

Dante  had  not,  however,  this  forbidding  appear- 
ance when  he  won  the  young  heart  of  Beatrice 
Portinari.  They  first  met  at  a  banquet  given  by 
her  father,  Folco  de'  Portinari,  when  Dante  was 
only  nine  years  old,  and  Beatrice  a  year  younger 
His  childish  attachment,  as  he  tells  us  himself,  com- 
menced from  that  hour;  it  became  a  passion,  which 
increased  with  his  years,  and  did  not  perish  even 
with  its  object. 

Beatrice  has  not  fared  better  at  the  hands  of 
commentators  than  Laura.  Laura,  with  her  golden 
hair  scattered  to  the  winds,  "  i  capei  d'oro  al  aura 
sporsi,"  her  soft  smiles,  and  her  angel-like  deport- 
ment, was  to  be  Eepentance ;  and  the  more  ma- 
jestic Beatrice,  in  whose  eyes  dwelt  love, 

E  spirit!  d'  amore  infiammati, 

was  sublimated  into  Theology;  with  how  iruch 
reason  we  shall  examine. 

In  one  of  his  canzoni,  called  il  Bitratto,  (the 
Portrait,)  Dante  has  left  us  a  most  minute  and  fin- 
ished picture  of  his  Beatrice,  "  which,"  says  Mr 


BEATRICE.  91 

Care)-,  "  might  well  supply  a  painter  with  a  far 
more  exalted  idea  of  female  beauty,  than  he  could 
form  to  himself  from,  the  celebrated  Ode  of  Ana- 
creon,  on  a  similar  subject."  From  this  canzore 
and  some  lines  scattered  through  his  sonnets,  I  shall 
sketch  the  person  and  character  of  Beatrice.  She 
was  not  in  form  like  the  slender  and  fragile-looking 
Laura,  but  on  a  larger  scale  of  loveliness,  tall  and 
of  a  commanding  figure  ;  * — graceful  in  her  gait 
as  a  peacock,  upright  as  a  crane, 

Soava  a  guisa  va  di  un  bel  pavone, 
Diritta  sopra  se,  come  una  grua. 

Her  hair  was  fair  and  curling, 

"  Capegli  crespi  e  biondi," 

but  not  golden — an  epithet  I  do  not  find  once  applied 
to  it ;  she  had  an  ample  forehead, "  spaciossa  fronte," 
a  mouth  that  when  it  smiled  surpassed  all  things  in 
sweetness ;  so  that  her  Poet  would  give  the  uni- 
verse to  hear  it  pronounce  a  kind  "  yes." 

Mira  che  quando  ride 

Passa  ben  di  dolcezza  ogni  altra  cosa. 

Cosi  dl  quella  bocca  il  pensier  mio 

Mi  sprona,  perche  io 

Non  ho  nel  mondo  cosa  che  non  desse 

A  tal  ch'  un  si,  con  buon  voler  dicesse. 

Her  neck  was  white  and  slender,  springing  grace- 
fully  from  the  bust — 

* '  Membra  formosi  et  grand!." 


92  BEATRICE. 

Poi  guarda  la  sua  svelta  e  bianca  gola 
Commessa  ben  dalle  spalle  e  rial  petto. 

A  small,  round,  dimpled  chin, 

Mento  tondo,  fesso  e  piccioletto: 

and  thereupon  the  Poet  breaks  out  into  a  rapture 
any  thing  but  theological, 

H  bel  diletto 

Aver  quel  collo  fra  le  braccia  stretto 
E  far  in  quella  gola  un  picciol  segno ! 

Her  arms  were  beautiful  and  round  ;  her  hand  soft 
white,  and  polished ; 

La  bianca  mano  morbida  e  pulita: 

her  fingers  slender,  and  decorated  with  jewelled 
rings  as  became  her  birth  ;  fair  she  was  as  a  pearl 

Con  un  color  angelica  di  perla: 

graceful  and  lovely  to  look  upon,  but  disdainful 
where  it  was  becoming : 

Graziosa  a  vederla, 

E  disdegnosa  dove  si  conviene. 

And,  as  a  corollary  to  these  traits,  I  will  quote  the 
eleventh  Sonnet  as  a  more  general  picture  of 
female  loveliness,  heightened  by  some  tender 
touches  of  mental  and  moral  beauty,  such  as  never 
Beem  to  have  occurred  to  the  debased  imaginations 
of  the  classic  poets : 


BEATRICE.  93 

Negli  occhi  porta  la  mia  Donna  Amore; 
Perche  si  fa  gentil  ciocch'  eUa  mira; 
Ov'  ella  passa,  ogni  uora  ver  lei  si  gira; 
E  cui  saluta,  fa  tremar  lo  core, 

Sicch6  bassando  '1  viso  tutto  smuore, 
Ed  ogni  suo  difetto  allor  sospira ; 
Fugge  dinanzi  a  lei  superbia  ed  ira. 
Ajutatemi,  donne,  a  farle  onore ! 

Ogni  dolcezza,  ogni  pensiero  umile 
Nasce  nel  core  a  chi  parlar  la  sente ; 
Onde  e  laudato  chi  prima  la  vide. 

Quel  ch'  ella  par,  quando  un  poco  sorride 
No  si  pub  dicer,  ne  tener  a  mente ; 
Si  e  nuovo  miracolo  e  gentile. 

TRANSLATION. 

t;  Love  is  throned  in  the  eyes  of  my  Beatrice!  they 
ennoble  every  thing  she  looks  upon !  As  she  passes,  men 
hirn  and  gaze ;  and  whomsoever  she  salutes,  his  heart 
trembles  within  him;  he  bows  his  head,  the  color  for- 
sakes his  cheek,  and  he  sighs  for  his  own  unworthiness. 
Pride  and  anger  fly  before  her!  Assist  me,  ladies,  to  do 
her  honor !  All  sweet  thoughts  of  humble  love  and  good- 
will spring  in  the  hearts  of  those  who  hear  her  speak,  so 
that  it  is  a  blessedness  first  to  behold  her,  and  when  she 
faintly  and  softly  smiles — ah !  then  it  passes  all  fancy,  all 
expression,  so  wondrous  is  the  miracle,  and  so  gracious !" 

The  love  of  Dante  for  his  Beatrice  partook  of 
the  purity,  tenderness,  and  elevated  character  of 
her  who  inspired  it,  and  was  also  stamped  with  that 
stern  and  melancholy  abstraction,  that  disposition 
to  mysticism,  which  were  such  strong  features  in 
the  character  of  her  lover.  He  does  not  break  out 
into  fond  and  effeminate  complaints,  lie  does  not 


94  BEATRICE. 

sigh  to  the  winds,  nor  swell  the  fountain  with  his 
tears  ;  his  love  does  not,  like  Petrarch's,  alternately 
freeze  and  burn  him,  nor  is  it  "  un  dolce  ainaro,' 
"  a  bitter  sweet,"  with  which  his  fancy  can  sport  in 
good  set  terms.  No;  it  shakes  his  whole  being 
like  an  earthquake ;  it  beats  in  every  pulse  and 
artery ;  it  has  dwelt  in  his  heart  till  it  has  become 
a  part  of  his  life,  or  rather  his  life  itself.*  Though 
we  are  not  told  so  expressly,  it  is  impossible  to 
doubt,  on  a  consideration  of  all  those  passages  and 
poems  which  relate  to  Beatrice,  that  his  love  was 
approved  and  returned,  and  that  his  character 
was  understood  and  appreciated  by  a  woman  too 
generous,  too  noble-minded,  to  make  him  the  sport 
of  her  vanity.  He  complains,  indeed,  poetically  of 
her  disdain,  for  which  he  excuses  himself  in  another 
poeni :  "  We  know  that  the  heavens  shine  on  in 
eternal  serenity,  and  that  it  is  only  our  imperfect 
vision,  and  the  rising  vapors  of  the  earth,  that 
make  the  ever-beaming  stars  appear  clouded  at 
times  to  our  eye."  He  expresses  no  fear  of  a  rival 
in  her  affections  ;  but  the  native  jealousy  as  well 
as  delicacy  of  his  temper  appears  in  those  passages 
in  which  he  addresses  the  eulogium  of  Beatrice  to 
the  Florentine  ladies  and  her  young  companions/I 

*  It  borrows  even  the  solemn  language  of  Sacred  Writ  to  ex 
press  its  intensity : 

Nelle  man  vostre,  o  dolce  donna  mia! 
Raccomando  lo  spirito  che  muore.  SON.  84. 

1 1  refer  particularly  to  that  sublime  Canzone  addressed  to  th 
ladies  of  Florence,  and  beginning, 

"Donne  ch'avete  intelletto  d'  amore." 


BEATRICE.  95 

fhose  of  his  own  sex,  as  he  assures  us,  were  not 
worthy  to  listen  to  her  praises ;  or  must  perforce 
have  become  enamoured  of  this  picture  of  female 
excellence,  the  fear  of  which  made  a  coward  of 
him — 

Ma  tratterb  del  suo  stato  gentile     • 
Donne  e  donzelle  amorose,  con  vui ; 
Che  non  e  cosa  da  parlarne  altrui. 

Among  the  young  companions  of  Beatrice,  Dante 
particularly  distinguishes  one,  who  appears  to  have 
been  her  chosen  friend,  and  who,  on  account  of  her 
singular  and  blooming  beauty,  was  called,  at  Flor- 
ence, Primavera,  (the  Spring.)  Her  real  name 
was  Giovanna.  Dante  frequently  names  them 
together,  and  in  particular  in  that  exquisitely 
fanciful  sonnet  to  his  friend  Guido  Cavalcanti; 
where  he  addresses  them  by  those  familiar  and  en- 
dearing diminutives,  so  peculiarly  Italian — 

E  Monna  Vanna  e  Monna  Bice  poi.* 

*  Monna  Vanna,  for  Madonna  Giovanna ;  and  Monna  Bice, 
Madonna  Beatrice. 

This  famous  sonnet  has  been  translated  by  Hayley  and  by 
Shelley.  I  subjoin  the  version  of  the  latter,  as  truer  to  the  spirit 
»f  the  original. 

THE  WISH.— TO  GUIDO  CAVALCANTI. 

Guido!  I  would  that  Lapo,  thou,  and  I, 
Led  by  some  strong  enchantment  might  ascend 

A  magic  ship,  whose  charmed  sails  should  fly 
With  winds  at  will,  where'er  our  thoughts  might  wend: 

And  that  no  change,  nor  any  evil  chance 
Should  mar  our  joyous  voyage;  but  it  might  be 


96  BEATRICE. 

It  appears  from  the  7th  and  8th  Sonnets  of  the 
Vita  Nuova,  that  in  the  early  part  of  their  inter- 
coarse,  Beatrice,  indulging  her  girlish  vivacity, 
smiled  to  see  her  lover  utterly  discountenanced  in 
her  presence,  and  pointed  out  her  triumph  to  her 
companions.  This  offence  seems  to  have  deeply 
affected  the  proud,  susceptible  mind  of  Dante :  it 
was  under  the  influence  of  some  such  morose  feel 
ing,  probably  on  this  very  occasion,  that  his  dark 
passions  burst  forth  in  the  bitter  lines  beginning, 

lo  maledico  il  di  ch  'io  vidi  imprlma 
La  luce  de'  vostri  occhi  traditori. 

"  I  curse  the  day  in  which  I  first  beheld  the  splen- 
dor of  those  traitor  eyes,"  &c.  This  angry  sonnet 
forms  a  fine  characteristic  contrast  with  that  elo- 
quent and  impassioned  effusion  of  Petrarch,  in 
which  he  multiplies  blessings  on  the  day,  the  hour, 
the  minute,  the  season,  and  the  spot,  in  which  he 
first  beheld  Laura — 

Benedetto  sia  1'  giorno,  e  '1  mese,  e  1'  anno,  &c. 

This  fit  of  indignation  was,  however,  short-lived 
Every  tender  emotion  of  Dante's  feeling  heart 

That  even  satiety  should  still  enhance 

Between  our  hearts  their  strict  community. 
And  that  the  bounteous  wizard  there  would  place 

Vauna  and  Bice,  and  thy  gentle  love, 
Companions  of  our  wanderings,  and  would  grace 

With  passionate  talk,  wherever  we  might  rove 
Our  time! — and  each  were  as  content  and  free 

As  I  believe  that  thou  and  I  should  be! 


BEATRICE.  97  . 

seems  to  have  been  called  forth  when  Beatrice  lost 
her  excellent  father.  Folco  Portinari  died  in  1289  • 
and  the  description  we  have  of  the  inconsolable 
grief  of  Beatrice  and  the  sympathy  of  her  young 
companions, — so  poetically,  so  delicately  touched 
by  her  lover, — impress  us  with  a  high  idea  of  both 
her  filial  tenderness  and  the  general  amiability  of 
her  disposition,  which  rendered  her  thus  beloved. 
In  the  12th  and  13th  Sonnets,  we  have,  perhaps, 
one  of  the  most  beautiful  groups  ever  presented  in 
poetry.  Dante  meets  a  company  of  young  Floren- 
tine ladies,  who  were  returning  from  paying  Bea- 
trice a  visit  of  condolence  on  the  death  of  her 
father.  Their  altered  and  dejected  looks,  their 
downcast  eyes,  and  cheeks  "  colorless  as  marble," 
make  his  heart  tremble  within  him  ;  he  asks  after 
Beatrice — "our  gentle  lady,"  as  he  tenderly  ex- 
presses it :  the  young  girls  raise  their  downcast 
eyes,  and  regard  him  with  surprise.  "Art  thou 
he,"  they  exclaim,  "  who  hast  so  often  sung  to  us 
the  praises  of  our  Beatrice  ?  the  voice,  indeed,  is 
his ;  but,  oh !  how  changed  the  aspect !  Thou 
weepest ! — why  shouldest  thou  weep  ? — thou  hast 
not  seen  her  tears  ; — leave  us  to  weep  and  return 
to  our  home,  refusing  comfort;  for  we,  indeed, 
have  heard  her  speak,  and  seen  her  dissolved  in 
grief;  so  changed  is  her  lovely  face  by  sorrow, 
that  to  look  upon  her  is  enough  to  make  one  die 
at  her  feet  for  pity.* 

It  should  seem  that  the   extreme  affliction  of 

*  Sonnetto  13  (Poesie  della  Vita  Nuova.) 
7 


98  BEATRICE. 

Beatrice  for  the  loss  of  her  father,  acting  on  a  deli- 
rate  constitution,  hastened  her  own  end,  for  she 
died  within'  a  few  months  afterwards,  in  her  24th 
year.  In  the  "  Vita  Nuova "  there  is  a  fragment 
of  a  Canzone,  which  breaks  off  at  the  end  of  the 
first  strophe ;  and  annexed  to  it  is  the  following 
affecting  no?e,  originally  in  the  handwriting  of 
Dante. 

"  I  was  engaged  in  the  composition  of  this  Can- 
zone, and  had  completed  only  the  above  stanza, 
when  it  pleased  the  God  of  justice  to  call  unto  him- 
self this  gentlest  of  human  beings ;  that  she  might 
be  glorified  under  the  auspices  of  that  blessed 
Queen,  the  Virgin  Maria,  whose  name  was  ever 
held  in  especial  reverence  by  my  sainted  Bea- 
trice." 

Boccaccio,  who  knew  Dante  personally,  tells  us, 
that  on  the  death  of  Beatrice,  he  was  so  changed 
by  affliction  that  his  best  friends  could  scarcely 
recognize  him.  He  scarcely  ate  or  slept ;  he  neg- 
lected his  person,  until  he  became  "  una  cosa  sel- 
vatica  a  vedere,"  a  savage  thing  to  the  eye:  to 
borrow  his  own  strong  expression,  he  seems  tc 
have  been  "  grief-stung  to  madness."  To  the  first 
Canzone,  written  after  the  death  of  Beatrice, 
Dante  has  prefixed  a  note,  in  which  he  tells  us, 
that  after  he  had  long  wept  in  silence  the  loss  of 
her  he  loved,  he  thought  to  give  utterance  to  hi* 
sorrow  in  words  ;  and  to  compose  a  Canzone,  in 
which  he  should  write,  (weeping  as  he  wrote,)  of 
the  virtues  of  her  who,  through  much  anguish,  had 


BEATRICE.  99 

bowed  his  soul  to  the  earth.  "  Then,"  he  says,  "  1 
thns  began  : — gli  occhi  dolenti," — which  are  the 
first  words  of  this  Canzone.  It  is  addressed,  like 
the  others,  to  her  female  companions,  whom  alone 
he  thought  worthy  to  listen  to  her  praises,  and 
whose  gentle  hearts  could  alone  sympathize  in  his 
grief. 

Non  vo  parlare  altrui 
Se  n?n  a  cor  gentil,  che  'n  donna  sia! 

One  stanza  of  this  Canzone  is  unequalled,  1 
think,  for  a  simplicity  at  once  tender  and  sublime. 
The  sentiment,  or  rather  the  meaning,  in  homely 
English  phrase,  would  run  thus  : — 

"  Ascended    is    our    Beatrice    to    the    highest  . 

heaven,  to  those  realms  where  angels  dwell  in 
peace ;  and  you,  her  fair  companions,  and  Love 
and  me,  she  has  left,  alas  !  behind.  It  was  not  the 
frost  of  winter  that  chilled  her,  nor  was  it  the  heat 
of  summer  that  withered  her ;  it  was  the  power  of 
her  virtue,  her  humility  and  her  truth,  that  as- 
cended into  heaven,  moved  the  ETERNAL  FATHER 
to  call  her  to  himself,  seeing  that  this  miserable 
life  was  not  worthy  of  any  thing  so  fair,  so  ex- 
cellent ! " 

On  the  anniversary  of  the  death  of  Beatrice, 
Dante  tells  us  that  he  was  sitting  alone,  thinking  / 

upon  her,  and  tracing,  as  he  meditated,  the  figure 
of  an  angel  on  his  tablets.*  Can  any  one  doubt 
that  this  little  incident,  so  natural  and  so  affecting 
—his  thinking  on  his  lost  Beatrice,  and  by  associa 

*  Vita  Nuova,  p.  268. 


100  BEATRICE. 

lion  sketching  the  figure  of  an  angel,  while  hia 
mind  dwelt  upon  her  removal  to  a  brighter  and 
better  world, — must  have  been  real  ?  It  gave  rise 
to  the  18th  Sonnet  of  the  Vita  Nuova,  which  he 
calls  "  II  doloroso  annovale,"  (the  mournful  anni- 
versary.) 

Another  little  circumstance,  not  less  affecting,  ho 
has  beautifully  commemorated  in  two  Sonnets, 
which  follow  the  one  last  mentioned.  They  are 
addressed  to  some  kind  and  gentle  creature,  who 
from  a  window  beheld  Dante  abandon  himself, 
with  fearful  vehemence,  to  the  agony  of  his  feel- 
ings, when  he  believed  no  human  eye  was  on 
him.  "  She  turned  pale/'  he  says,  "  with  com- 
passion ;  her  eyes  filled  with  tears,  as  if  she  had 
loved  me :  then  did  I  remember  my  noble-hearted 
Beatrice,  for  even  thus  she  often  looked  upon  me," 
&c.  And  he  confesses  that  the  grateful,  yet  mourn- 
ful pleasure  with  which  he  met  the  pitying  look  of 
this  fair  being,  excited  remorse  in  his  heart,  that 
he  should  be  able  to  derive  pleasure  from  any 
thing. 

Dante  concludes  the  collection  of  his  Rime,  (his 
miscellaneous  poems  on  the  subject  of  his  early 
love,)  with  this  remarkable  note  : — 

"  I  beheld  a  marvellous  vision  which  has  caused 
me  to  cease  from  writing  in  praise  of  my  blessed 
Beatrice,  until  I  can  celebrate  her  more  worthily ; 
which  that  I  may  do,  I  devote  my  whole  soul  to 
study,  as  she  knoweth  well ;  in  so  much,  that  if  it 
please  the  Great  Disposer  of  all  things  to  prolong 


BEATBICE.  101 

my  life  foi  a  few  years  upon  this  earth,  I  hope 
hereafter  to  sing  of  my  Beatrice  what  never  yet 
was  said  or  sung  of  woman." 

And  in  this  transport  of  enthusiasm,  Dante  con- 
ceived the  idea  of  his  great  poem,  of  which  Bea- 
trice was  destined  to  be  the  heroine.  It  was  to  no 
Muse,  called  by  fancy  from  her  fabled  heights,  and 
feigned  at  the  poet's  will ;  it  was  not  to  ambition 
of  fame,  nor  literary  leisure  seeking  a  vent  for 
overflowing  thoughts ;  nor  to  the  wish  to  aggran- 
dize himself,  or  to  flatter  the  pride  of  a  patron  ; — 
but  to  the  inspiration  of  a  young,  beautiful,  and 
noble-minded  woman,  we  owe  one  of  the  grandest 
efforts  of  human  genius.  And  never  did  it  enter 
into  the  imagination  of  any  lover,  before  or  since, 
to  raise  so  mighty,  so  vast,  so  enduring,  so  glorious 
a  monument  to  the  worth  and  charms  of  a  mistress. 
Other  poets  were  satisfied  if  they  conferred  on  the 
object  of  their  love  an  immortality  on  earth :  Dante 
was  not  content  till  he  had  placed  his  on  a  throne 
in  the  Empyreum,  above  choirs  of  angels,  in  pres- 
ence of  the  very  fountain  of  glory ;  her  brow 
wreathed  with  eternal  beams,  and  clothed  with  the 
ineffable  splendors  of  beatitude ; — an  apotheosis, 
compared  to  which,  all  others  are  earthly  and  poor 
indeed, 

. 

, 


*02  BEATRICE. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

DANTE   AND   BEATRICE. 

CONTINUED. 

THROUGH  the  two  parts  of  the  Divina  Comma- 
dia,  (Hell  and  Purgatory,)  Beatrice  is  merely 
announced  to  the  reader — she  does  not  appear  in 
person  ;  for  what  should  the  sinless  and  sanctified 
spirit  of  Beatrice  do  in  those  abodes  of  eternal 
anguish  and  expiatory  torment  ?  Her  appearance, 
however,  in  due  time  and  place,  is  prepared  and 
shadowed  forth  in  many  beautiful  allusions:  for 
instance,  it  is  she  who  descending  from  the  empyreal 
height,  sends  Virgil  to  be  the  deliverer  of  Dante 
in  the  mysterious  forest,  and  his  guide  through  the 
abysses  of  torment. 

lo  son  Beatrice  che  ti  faccia  andare; 
Vegiio  di  loco  ove  tornar  dlsio : 
Amor  mi  mosse  che  mi  fa  parlare. 

INFERNO,  c.  2. 

"  I  who  now  bid  thee  on  this  errand  forth 
Am  Beatrice ;  from  a  place  I  come 
Revisited  with  joy;  love  brought  me  thence, 
Who  prompts  my  speech." 

CAREY'S  TRANS. 

And  she  is  indicated,  as  it  were,  several  times  in 
the  course  of  the  poem,  in  a  manner  which  pre- 


BEATRICE.  103 

pares  us  for  the  sublimity  with  which  she  is  at 
length  introduced,  in  all  the  majesty  of  a  superior 
nature,  all  the  dreamy  splendor  of  an  ideal  pres* 
encc,  and  all  the  melancholy  charm  of  a  beloved  and 
lamented  reality.  When  Dante  has  left  the  con- 
fines of  Purgatory,  a  wondrous  chariot  approaches 
from  afar,  surrounded  by  a  flight  of  angelic  beings, 
and  veiled  in  a  cloud  of  flowers  ("  un  nuvola  di 
fieri,"  is  the  beautiful  expression.) — A  female  form 
is  at  length  apparent  in  the  midst  of  this  angelic 
pomp,  seated  in  the  car,  and  "robed  in  hues  of 
living  flame ;  "  she  is  veiled  :  he  cannot  discern  her 
features,  but  there  moves  a  hidden  virtue  from 
her, 

At  whose  touch 
The  power  of  ancient  love  was  strong  within  him. 

He  recognizes  the  influence  which  even  in  hia 
childish  days  had  smote  him — 

Che  gia  m'  avea  trafitto 
Prima  eh'  io  fuor  della  puerizia  fosse ; 

and  his  failing  heart  and  quivering  frame  confess 
the  thrilling  presence  of  his  Beatrice — 

Conosco  i  segni  dell'  antica  fiamma ! 

The  whole  passage  is  as  beautifully  wrought  as  it 
is  feelingly  and  truly  conceived. 

Beatrice, — no  longer  the  sof^  frail  and  feminine 
being  he  had  known  and  loved  vpon  earth,  but  an 
admonishing  spirit, — rises  up  in  her  chariot, 


104  BEATRICE. 

And  with  a  mien 

»  Of  that  stern  majesty  which  doth  surround 

A  mother's  presence  to  her  awe-struck  child, 
She  looked — a  flavor  of  such  bitterness 
Was  mingled  with  her  pity ! 

CAREY'S  TRANS. 

IJante  then  puts  into  her  mouth  the  most  sever* 
yet  eloquent  accusation  against  himself:  while  he 
stands  weeping  by,  bowed  down  by  shame  and 
anguish.  She  accuses  him  before  the  listening 
angels  for  his  neglected  time,  his  wasted  talents,  his 
forgetfulness  of  her,  when  she  was  no  longer  upon 
earth  to  lead  him  with  the  light  of  her  "  youthful 
eye,"  (gli  occhi  giovinetti.) 

Soon  as  I  had  changed 
My  mortal  for  immortal,  then  he  left  me, 
And  gave  himself  to  others;  when  from  flesh 
To  spirit  1  had  risen,  and  increase 
Of  beauty  and  virtue  circled  me, 
I  was  less  dear  to  him  and  valued  less ! 

PURGATORY,  c.  30. — CAREY'S  TRANS. 

This  praise  of  herself  and  stern  upbraiding  of  her 
lover,  would  sound  harsh  from  woman's  lips,  bul 
have  a  solemnity,  and  even  a  sublimity,  as  uttered 
by  a  disembodied  and  angelic  being.  When  Dante, 
weeping,  falters  out  a  faint  excuse — 

Thy  fair  looks  withdrawn, 
Things  present  with  deceitful  pleasures  turned 
My  steps  aside, — 

she  answers  by  reproaching  him  with  his  incoir 
btancy  to  her  memory  : — 


BEATRICE.  1 05 

Never  didst  thou  spy 
In  art  or  nature  aught  so  passing  sweet 
As  were  the  limbs  that  in  their  beauteous  frame 
Enclosed  me,  and  are  scattered  now  in  dust. 
If  sweetest  thing  thus  failed  thee  with  my  death 
What  afterward  of  mortal  should  thy  wish 
Have  tempted  ?  PUBGATORY,  c.  31. 

Aud  she  rebukes  him,  for  that  he  could  stoop  from 
the  memory  of  her  love  to  be  the  thrall  of  a  slight 
(jirl.  This  last  expression  is  supposed  to  allude 
either  to  Dante's  unfortunate  marriage  with  Gemma 
Donati,*  or  to  the  attachment  he  formed  during 
his  exile  for  a  beautiful  Lucchese  named  Gentucca, 
the  subject  of  several  of  his  poems.  But,  notwith- 
standing all  this  severity  of  censure,  Dante  gazing 
on  his  divine  monitress,  is  so  rapt  by  her  loveliness, 
his  eyes  so  eager  to  recompense  themselves  for 
"  their  ten  years'  thirst,"  (Beatrice  had  been  dead 
ten  years,)  that  not  being  yet  freed  from  the  stain 
of  his  earthly  nature,  he  is  warned  not  to  gaze 
u  too  fixedly  "  on  her  charms.  After  a  farther  pro- 
bation, Beatrice  introduces  him  into  the  various 
spheres  which  compose  the  celestial  paradise  ;  and 
thenceforward  she  certainly  assumes  the  character- 
istics of  an  allegorical  being.  The  true  distinction 
seems  this,  that  Dante  has  not  represented  Divine 
Wisdom  under  the  name  and  form  of  Beatrice,  but 

*  This  marriage  was  one  of  policy,  and  negotiated  by  the  friends 
of  Dante  and  of  Gemma  Donati :  her  temper  was  violent  and 
harsh,  and  their  domestic  peace  was,  probably,  not  increased  by 
Xante's  obstinate  regret  for  his  first  love. 


106  BEATRICE. 

the  more  to  exalt  his  Beatrice,  he  has  clothed  hei 
in  the  attributes  of  Divine  Wisdom. 

She  at  length  ascends  with  him  into  the  Heaven 
of  Heavens,  to  the  source  of  eternal  and  uncreated 
light,  •without  shadow  and  without  bound ;  and 
when  Dante  looks  round  for  her,  he  finds  she  has 
quitted  his  side,  and  has  taken  her  place  throned 
among  the  supreme  blessed,  "  as  far  above  him  as 
the  region  of  thunder  is  above  the  centre  of  the 
sea ;  "  he  gazes  up  at  her  in  a  rapture  of  love  and 
devotion,  and  in  a  sublime  apostfbphe  invokes  her 
still  to  continue  her  favor  towards  him.  She  looks 
down  upon  him  from  her  effulgent  height,  smiles 
on  him  with  celestial  sweetness,  and  then  fixing  her 
eyes  on  the  eternal  fountain  of  glory,  is  absorbed 
in  ecstasy.  Here  we  leave  her ;  the  poet  had 
touched  the  limits  of  permitted  thought ;  the  seraph 
wings  of  imagination,  borne  upwards  by  the  inspi- 
ration of  deep  love,  could  no  higher  soar, — the 
audacity  of  genius  could  dare  no  farther ! 
#  *  *  *  * 

Dante  died  at  Ravenna  in  1321,  and  was  sump 
tuously  interred  at  the  cost  of  Guido  da  Polenta, 
the  father  of  that  unfortunate  Francesca  di  Rimini, 
whose  story  he  has  so  exquisitely  told  in  the  fifth 
canto  of  the  Inferno.  He  left  several  sons  and  an 
only  daughter,  whom  he  had  named  Beatrice,  in 
remembrance  of  his  early  love :  she  became  a  nun 
at  Ravenna. 

Now  where,  in  the  name  of  all  truth  and  all 
feeling,  were  the  heads,  or  rather  the  hearts,  of 


PHILIPPA   PICARD.  10? 

those  commentators,  who  could  see  nothing  in  the 
Beatrice  thus  beautifully  portrayed,  thus  tenderly 
lamented,  and  thus  sublimely  commemorated,  but 
a  mere  allegorical  personage,  the  creation  of  a 
poet's  fancy  V  Nothing  can  come  of  nothing ;  and 
it  was  no  unreal  or  imaginary  being  who  turned 
the  course  of  Dante's  ardent  passions  and  active 
spirit,  and  burning  enthusiasm,  into  one  sweeping 
torrent  of  love  and  poetry,  and  gave  to  Italy  and 
"to  the  world  the  Divina  Commedia! 


CHAPTER  X. 

CHAUCER  AND   PHILIPPA   PICARD. 

AFTER  Italy,  England, — who  has  ever  trod  in  her 
footsteps,  and  at  length  outstripped  her  in  the  race 
of  intellect, — was  the  next  to  produce  a  great  and 
prevailing  genius  in  poetry,  a  master  spirit,  whom 
no  change  of  customs,  manners,  or  language  can 
render  wholly  obsolete ;  and  who  was  destined,  like 
the  rest  of  his  tribe,  to  bow  before  the  influence  of 
woman,  to  toil  in  her  praise,  and  soar  by  hei 
inspiratiDn. 

Seven  years  after  the  death  of  Dante,  Chaucer 
was  born,  and  he  was  twenty-four  years  younger 
4ian  Petrarch,  whom  he  met  at  Padua  in  1373; 


108  PHILIPPA    PICARD. 

this  meeting  between  the  two  great  poets  was 
memorable  in  itself,  and  yet  more  interesting  for 
having  first  introduced  into  the  English  language 
that  beautiful  monument  to  the  virtue  of  women, — 
the  story  of  Griselda. 

Boccaccio  had  lately  sent  to  his  friend  the  MS. 
of  the  Decameron e,  of  which  it  is  the  concluding 
tale :  the  tender  fancy  of  Petrarch,  refined  by  a 
forty  years'  attachment  to  a  gentle  and  elegant 
female,  passed  over  what  was  vicious  and  blamable, 
or  only  recommended  by  the  wit  and  the  style,  and 
fixed  with  delight  on  the  tale  of  Griselda ;  so  beau- 
tiful in  itself,  and  so  honorable  to  the  sex  whom  he 
had  poetically  deified  in  the  person  of  one  lovely 
woman.  He  amused  his  leisure  hours  in  translat- 
ing it  into  Latin,  and  having  finished  his  version, 
he  placed  it  in  the  hands  of  a  citizen  of  Padua, 
and  desired  him  to  read  it  aloud.  His  friend 
accordingly  began ;  but  as  he  proceeded,  the  over- 
powering pathos  of  the  story  so  affected  him,  that 
he  was  obliged  to  stop;  he  began  again,  but  was 
unable  to  proceed;  the  gathering  tears  blinded 
him,  and  choked  his  voice,  and  he  threw  down  the 
manuscript.  This  incident,  which  Petrarch  him- 
self relates  in  a  letter  to  Boccaccio,  occurred  about 
ihe  period  when  Chaucer  passed  from  Genoa  to 
Padua  to  visit  the  poet  and  lover  of  Laura — 

Quel  grande,  alia  cui  fama  angusto  6  il  mondo. 

Petrarch  must  have  regarded  the  English  poet 
with  that  wondering,  enthusiastic  admiration  with 


PHILIPPA    PICARD.  109 

which  we  should  now  hail  a  Milton  or  a  Shakspeare 
sprung  from  Otaheite  or  Nova  Zembla;  and  his 
heart  and  soul  being  naturally  occupied  by  his 
latest  work,  he  repeated  the  experiment  he  had 
before  tried  on  his  Paduan  friend.  The  impres- 
sion which  the  Griselda  produced  upon  the  vivid, 
susceptible  imagination  of  Chaucer,  may  be  judged 
from  his  own  beautiful  version  of  it  in  the  Canter- 
bury Tales ;  where  the  barbarity  and  improbability 
of  the  incidents  are  so  redeemed  by  the  pervading 
truth  and  purity  and  tenderness  of  the  sentiment, 
that  I  suppose  it  never  was  perused  for  the  first 
time  without  tears.  Chaucer,  as  if  proud  of  his 
interview  with  Petrarch,  and  anxious  to  publish  it, 
is  careful  to  tell  us  that  he  did  not  derive  the  story 
from  Boccaccio,  but  that  it  was 

Learned  at  Padua  of  a  ,worthy  clerk, 
As  proved  by  Ms  wordes  and  his  work; 
Francis  Petrark,  the  Laureat  Poete ; 

which  is  also  proved  by  internal  evidence. 

Chaucer  so  far  resembled  Petrarch,  that,  like 
him,  he  was  at  once  poet,  scholar,  courtier,  states- 
man, philosopher,  and  man  of  the  world ;  but  con- 
sidered merely  as  poets,  they  were  the:  very  anti- 
podes of  each  other.  The  genius  of  Dante  has 
been  compared  to  a  Gothic  cathedral,  vast  and 
lofty,  and  f'ark  and  irregular.  In  the  same  spirit, 
Petrarch  may  be  likened  to  a  classical  and  elegant 
Greek  temple,  rising  aloft  in  its  fair  and  faultless ' 
oroportions,  and  compacted  of  the  purest  Parian 


110  PHILIPPA    PICARD. 

marble;  while  Chaucer  is  like  the  far-spreading 
and  picturesque  palace  of  the  Alhambra,  with  its 
hundred  chambers,  all  variously  decorated,  and 
rich  with  barbaric  pomp  and  gold :  he  is  famed 
rather  as  the  animated  painter  of  character,  and 
manners,  and  external  nature,  than  the  poet  of 
love  and  sentiment;  and  yet  no  writer,  Shakspeare 
always  excepted,  (and  perhaps  Spenser)  contains 
so  many  beautiful  and  tender  passages  relating  to, 
or  inspired  by  women.  He  lived,  it  is  true,  in  rude 
times,  strangely  deficient  in  good  taste  and  deco- 
rum ;  but  when  all  the  institutions  of  chivalry, 
under  the  most  chivalrous  of  our  kings  and  princes,* 
were  at  their  height  in  England.  As  a  poet, 
Chaucer  was  enlisted  into  the  service  of  three  of 
the  most  illustrious,  most  beautiful,  and  most  accom- 
plished women  of  that  age — Philippa,  the  high- 
hearted and  generous  Queen  of  Edward  the  Third ; 
the  Lady  Blanche  of  Lancaster,  first  wife  of  John 
of  Gaunt ;  and  the  lovely  Anne  of  Bohemia,  the 
Queen  of  Richard  the  Second ;  f  for  whom,  and  at 
whose  command,  he  wrote  his  •'  Legende  of  Gode 

*  Edward  III.  and  the  Black  Prince. 

t  She  was  popularly  distinguished  as  the  "  good  Qneen  Anne," 
and  as  dear  to  her  husband  as  to  her  people.  Richard,  who  with 
many  and  fatal  faults,  really  possessed  sensibility  and  strong  do- 
mestic affections  with  which  Shakspeare  has  so  finely  portrayed 
him,  was  passionately  devoted  to  his  amiable  wife.  She  died 
young,  at  the  Palace  of  Sheen ;  and  when  Richard  afterwards  vis- 
ited the  scene  of  his  loss,  he  solemnly  cursed  it  in  his  anguish, 
and  commanded  it  to  be  razed  to  the  ground,  which  was  done. 
One  of  our  kings  afterwards  rebuilt  it.  I  think  Henry  the  SeT- 
•nth. 


PH1LIPPA   PICARD.  ill 

Woman,"  as  some  amends  for  the  scandal  he  had 
spoken  of  us  in  other  places.  The  Countess  of 
Essex,  the  Countess  of  Pembroke,  and  that  beauti- 
ful Lady  Salisbury,  the  ancestress  of  the  Montagu 
family,  whose  famous  mischance  gave  rise  to  the 
Order  of  the  Garter,  were  also  among  Char.cer's 
patronesses.  But  the  most  distinguished  of  all,  and 
the  favorite  subject  of  his  poetry,  was  the  Duchess 
Blanche.  The  manner  in  which  he  has  contrived 
to  celebrate  his  own  loves  and  individual  feelings 
with  those  of  Blanche  and  her  royal  suitor,  has 
given  additional  interest  to  both,  and  has  enabled 
his  commentators  to  fix  with  tolerable  certainty 
the  name  and  rank  of  the  object  of  his  love,  as 
well  as  the  date  and  circumstances  of  his  attach- 
ment. 

In  the  earliest  of  Chaucer's  poems,  "  THE  COURT 
OF  LOVE,"  he  describes  himself  as  enamoured  of  a 
fair  mistress,  whom,  in  the  style  of  the  time,  he 
calls  Rosial,  and  himself  Philogenet :  the  lady  is 
described  as  "  sprung  of  noble  race  and  high,"  with 
"  angel  visage,"  "  golden  hair,"  and  eyes  orient 
and  bright,  with  figure,  "  sharply  slender," 

So  that  from  the  head  unto  the  foot  all  is  sweet  woman- 
head, 

and  arrayed  in  a  vest  of  green,  with  her  tresses 
Draided  with  silk  and  gold.  She  treats  him  at  first 
with  disdain,  and  the  Poet  swoons  away  at  her 
feet :  satisfied  by  this  convincing  proof  of  his  sin- 
cerity, she  is  induced  to  accept  his  homage,  and 


J12  PHILIPPA   PICARD. 

becomes  his  "  liege  ladye,"  and  the  sovereign  of 
his  thoughts.  In  this  poem,  which  is  extremely  wild, 
and  has  come  down  to  us  in  an  imperfect  state, 
Chaucer  quaintly  admonishes  all  lovers,  that  an  ab- 
solute faith  in  the  perfection  of  their  mistresses, 
and  obedience  to  her  slightest  caprice,  are  among 
the  first  duties ;  that  they  must  in  all  oases  believe 
their  ladye  faultless  ;  that, 

In  every  thing  she  doth  but  asishe  should. 
Construe  the  best,  believe  no  tales  new, 
For  many  a  lie  is  told  that  seem'th  full  true; 
But  think  that  she,  so  bounteous  and  so  fair, 
Could  not  be  false ;  imagine  this  alway. 

*  *  *  * 

And  tho'  thou  seest  a  fault  right  at  thine  eye, 
Excuse  it  quick,  and  glose  it  prettily.* 

jNor  are  they  to  presume  on  their  own  worthiness, 
nor  to  imagine  it  possible  they  can  earn 

By  right,  her  mercie,  nor  of  equity, 
But  of  her  grace  and  womanly  pitye.f 

There  is,  however,  no  authority  for  supposing 
that  at  the  time  this  poem  was  written,  Chaucer 
really  aspired  to  the  hand  of  any  lady  of  superior 
birth,  or  was  very  seriously  in  love  ;  he  was  then 
about  nineteen,  and  had  probably  selected  some 
fair  one,  according  to  the  custom  of  his  age,  to  be 
Uis  "  fancy's  queen,"  and  in  the  same  spirit  of  po- 

*  Court  of  Love,  v.  369-412.  t  Ibid. 


P1IIL1PPA   PICARD.  113 

ebcal  gallantry,  he  writes  to  do  her  honor ;  he  says 
himself, 

My  intent  and  all  my  busie  care 

Is  for  to  write  this  treatise  as  I  can, 

Unto  my  lad  ye,  stable,  true,  and  sure ; 

Faithful  and  kind  sith  firste  that  she  began 

Me  to  accept  in  service  as  her  man ; 

To  her  be  all  the  pleasures  of  this  book, 

That,  when  her  like,  she  may  it  rede  and  looi.* 

Mixed  up  with  all  this  gallantry  and  refinement 
are  some  passages  inconceivably  absurd  and  gross ; 
but  such  were  those  times, — at  once  rude  and  mag- 
nificent— an  odd  mixture  of  cloth  of  frieze  and 
cloth  of  gold ! 

The  "Parliament  of  Birds,"  entitled  in  many 
editions,  the  "  Assembly  of  Fowls"  celebrates  alle- 
gorically  the  courtship  of  John  of  Gaunt  and 
Blanche  of  Lancaster. 

Blanche,  as  the  greatest  heiress  of  England,  with 
a  duchy  for  her  portion,  could  not  fail  to  be  sur- 
rounded by  pretenders  to  her  hand;  but  after  a 
year  of  probation,  she  decided  in  favor  of  John  of 
Gaunt,  who  thus  became  Duke  of  Lancaster  in 
right  of  his  bride.  This  youthful  and  princely 
pair  were  then  about  nineteen. 

The  "Parliament  of  Birds"  being  written  in 
1358,  when  Blanche  had  postponed  her  choice  for 
a  year,  has  fixed  the  date  of  Chaucer's  attachment 
to  the  lady  he  afterwards  married;  for  here  he 

*  Court  of  Love,  v.  36-42. 
8 


114  PHILIPPA    PICARD. 

describes  himself  as  one  who  had  not  yet  felt  the 
full  power  of  love — 

For  albeit  that  I  know  not  love  indeed, 
Ne  wot  how  that  he  quitteth  folks  their  hire, 
Yet  happeth  me  full  oft  in  books  to  read 
Of  his  miracles. 

But  the  time  was  come  when  the  poet,  now  in 
his  thirty-second  year,  was  destined  to  feel  that  a 
strong  attachment  for  a  deserving  object — for  one 
who  will  not  be  obtained  unsought, u  was  no  sport," 
as  he  expresses  it,  but 

Smart  and  sorrow,  and  great  heavinesse. 

During  the  period  of  trial  which  Lady  Blanche 
had  inflicted  on  her  lover,  it  was  Chaucer's  fate  to 
fall  in  love  in  sad  earnest. — The  object  of  this 
passion,  too  beautifully  and  unaffectedly  described 
not  to  be  genuine,  was  Philippa  Picard  de  llouet, 
the  daughter  of  a  knight  of  Hainault,  and  a  favor- 
ite attendant  of  Queen  Philippa.  Her  elder  sister 
Catherine,  was  at  the  same  time  maid  of  honor  to 
the  Ditehess  Blanche.  Both  these  sisters  were  dis- 
tinguished at  Court  for  their  beauty  and  accom- 
plishments, and  were  the  friends  and  companions 
of  the  Princesses  they  served :  and  both  are  singu- 
larly interesting  from  their  connection,  political  and 
poetical,  with  English  history  and  literature. 

Philippa  Picard  is  one  of  the  principal  person 
ages  in  the   poem,  entitled   "  Chaucer's   Dream, 


PHILIPPA   PICARD.  \  115 

which  is  a  kind  of  epithalamium  celebrating  the 
marriage  of  John  of  Gaunt  with  the  Lady 
which  took  place  at  Reading,  May  19,  1359.  It  ia 
a  wild  fanciful  vision  of  fairy-land  and  enchant- 
ments, of  which  I  cannot  attempt  to  give  an  analy- 
sis. In  the  opening  lines,  written  about  twelve 
months  after  the  "  Parliament  of  Birds,"  we  find 
Chaucer  in  deep  love,  according  to  all  its  forms. 
He  is  lying  awake, 

About  such  hour  as  lovers  weep 
And  cry  after  their  lady's  grace, 

thinking  on  his  mistress — all  her  goodness  and  all 
her  sweetness,  and  marvelling  how  heaven  had 
formed  her  so  exceeding  fair, 

And  in  so  litel  space 
Made  such  a  body  and  such  a  face , 
So  great  beauty,  and  such  features, 
More  than  be  in  other  creatures ! 

He  falls  into  a  dream  as  usual,  and  in  the  con- 
clusion fancies  himself  present  at  the  splendid  fes- 
tivities which  took  place  at  the  marriage  of  his 
patron.  The  ladye  of  his  affection  is  described  as 
the  beloved  friend  and  companion  of  the  bride. 
She  is  sent  to  grace  the  marriage  ceremony  with 
her  presence  ;  and  Chaucer  seizes  the  occasion  to 
plead  bis  suit  for  love  and  mercy.  Then  the 
Prince,  the  Queen,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  Court, 
inite  in  conjuring  the  lady  to  have  pity  on  his 


126  PHILIPPA  PICARD. 

pain,  and  recompense  his  truth !  she  smiles,  and 
with  a  pretty  hesitation  at  last  consents. 

Sith  his  will  and  yours  are  one, 
Contrary  in  me  shall  be  none. 

They  are  married  :  the  ladies  and  the  knights  wish 
them 

Heart's  pleasance, 

In  joy  and  health  continuance ! 

The  minstrels  strike  up, — the  multitude  send  forth 
a  shout ;  and  in  the  midst  of  these  joyous  and  tri- 
umphant sounds,  and  in  the  troubled  exultation  of 
his  own  heart,  the  sleeper  bounds  from  his  couch,— 

Wening  to  have  been  at  the  feast, 

and  wakes  to  find  it  all  a  dream.  He  looks  around 
for  the  gorgeous  marriage-feast,  and  instead  of  the 
throng  of  knights  and  ladies  gay,  he  sees  nothing 
but  the  figures  staring  at  him  from  the  tapestry. 

On  the  walls  old  portraiture 
Of  horsemen,  of  hawks  and  hounds, 
And  hurt  deer  all  full  of  wounds; 
Some  like  torn,  some  hurt  with  shot; 
And  as  my  dream  was,  that  was  not !  * 

He  is  plunged  in  grief  to  find  himself  thus  reft 
of  all  his  visionary  joys,  and  prays  to  sleep  again, 

*  i.  e.  tie  tapcstn  ,  like  my  dream,  was  a  representation,  not  > 
reality 


PHILIPPA   PICARD.  117 

ipd  dream  thus  for  aye,  or  at  least  "  a  thousand 
years  and  ten." 

Lo,  here  my  bliss ! — lo,  here  my  pain ! 
Which  to  my  ladye  I  complain, 
And  grace  and  mercy  of  her  requere, 
To  end  my  woe  and  all  my  fear; 
And  me  accept  for  her  service — 
That  of  my  dream,  the  substance 
Might  turnen,  once,  to  cognizance.* 

And  the  whole  concludes  with  a  very  tender 
"  envoi,"  expressly  addressed  to  Philippa,  although 
(lie  poem  was  written  in  honor  of  his  patrons,  the 
Duke  and  Duchess.  It  has  been  well  observed, 
that  nothing  can  be  more  delicate  and  ingenious 
than  the  manner  in  which  Chaucer  has  compli- 
mented his  mistress,  and  ventured  to  shadow  forth 
his  own  hopes  and  desires  ;  confessing,  at  the  same 
<  time,  that  they  were  built  on  air  and  ended  in  a 
dream :  it  may  be  added,  that  nothing  can  be  more 
picturesque  and  beautiful,  and  vigorous,  than  some 
of  the  descriptive  parts  of  this  poem. 

There  is  no  reason  to  suppose  that  Philippa  was 
absolutely  deaf  to  the  suit,  or  insensible  to  the  fame 
and  talents  of  her  poet-lover.  The  delay  which 
took  place  was  from  a  cause  honorable  to  her  char- 

*  Chaucer's  Dreame,  v.  2185.  "  Here  also  is  showed  Chau«er'» 
match  with  a  certain  gentlewoman,  who  was  so  well  liked  ani 
loved  of  the  Lady  Blanche  and  her  Lord,  (as  Chaucer  himself  also 
*as,)  that  gladly  they  concluded  a  marriage  between  them."— Ar- 
guments to  Chaucer's  Works,  Edit.  1597. 


118  PHILIPPA    PICARD. 

acter  and  her  heart ;  it  arose  from  the  declining 
health  of  her  royal  mistress,  to  whom  she  was  most 
strongly  and  gratefully  attached,  and  whose  noble 
qualities  deserved  all  her  affection.  It  appears, 
from  a  comparison  of  dates,  that  Chaucer  endured 
a  suspense  of  more  than  nine  years,  during  which 
he  was  a  constant  and  fervent  suitor  of  his  ladye'a 
grace.  In  this  interval  he  translated  the  Romaunt 
of  the  Rose,  the  most  famous  poetical  work  of  the 
middle  ages.  He  addressed  it  to  his  mistress  :  and 
it  is  remarkable  that  a  very  elaborate  and  cynical 
satire  on  women,  which  occurs  in  the  original 
French,  is  entirely  omitted  by  Chaucer  in  his  ver- 
sion ;  perhaps  because  it  would  have  been  a  prof- 
anation to  her  who  then  ruled  his  heart ;  on  other 
occasions  he  showed  no  such  forbearance. 

In  the  year  1369,  Chaucer  lost  his  amiable  pat- 
roness, the  Duchess  Blanche ;  she  died  in  hei 
thirtieth  year ;  he  lamented  her  death  in  a  long  • 
poem,  entitled  the  "  Booke  of  the  Duchesse."  The 
truth  of  the  story,  the  virtues,  the  charms,  and  the 
youth  of  the  Princess,  the  grief  of  her  husband, 
and  the  simplicity  and  beauty  of  many  passages, 
render  this  one  of  the  most  interesting  and  striking 
of  all  Chaucer's  works. 

The  description  of  Blanche,  in  the  "  Booke  of 
the  Duchesse,"  shows  how  trifling  is  the  difference 
between  a  perfect  female  character  in  the  thir- 
teenth century,  and  what  would  now  be  considered 
as  such.  It  is  a  very  lively  and  animated  picture. 
Her  golden  hair  and  laughing  eyes ;  her  skill  in 


PHILIi'PA    PICAKD.  119 

dancing,  and  her  sweet  carolling ;  her  "  goodly 
and  friendly  speech ; "  her  debonair  looks ;  her 
gayety  that  was  still "  so  womanly ; "  her  indifference 
to  general  admiration  ;  her  countenance,  "  that 
was  so  simple  and  so  benigne,"  contrasted  with  her 
high-spirited  modesty  and  consciousness  of  lofty 
birth, 

No  living  wight  might  do  her  shame, 
She  loved  so  well  her  own  name. 

her  disdain  of  that  coquetry  which  holds  men 
44  in  balance," 

By  half  word  or  by  countenance ; 

her  wit,  "  without  malice,  and  ever  set  upon  glad- 
nesse ;  "  and  her  goodness,  which  the  Poet  with  a 
nice  discrimination  of  female  virtue,  distinguishes 
from  mere  ignorance  of  evil — for  though  in  all  her 
actions  was  perfect  innocence,  he  adds, 

t  say  not  that  she  had  no  knowing 

What  harm  was ;  for,  else,  she 

Had  known  no  good — so  thinketh  me; 

are  all  beautifully  and  happily  set  forth,  and  are 
charms  so  appropriate  to  woman,  as  woman,  that  no 
change  of  fashion  or  lapse  of  ages  can  alter  theil 
effect.  Time 

u  Can  draw  no  lines  there  with  his  antique  pet," 


120  PHILIPPA    PICARD. 

But  afterwards  follows  a  trait  peculiarly  chaiacter- 
istio  of  the  women  of  that  chivalrous  period.  She 
was  not,  says  Chaucer,  one  of  those  ladies  who 
send  their  lovers  off 

To  Walachie, 

To  Prussia,  and  to  Tartary, 
To  Alexandria,  ne  Turkic; 

and  on  other  bootless  errands,  by  way  of  display 
ing  their  power. 

She  used  no  such  knacks  small. 

That  is,  she  was  superior  to  such  frivolous  tricks. 

John  of  Gaunt,  who  is  the  principal  speaker  and 
chief  mourner  in  the  poem,  gives  a  history  of  his 
courtship,  and  tells  with  what  mixture  of  fear 
and  awe,  he  then  "  right  young,"  approached  tLe 
lovely  heiress  of  Lancaster:  but  bethinking  him 
that  Heaven  could  never  have  formed  in  any  crea- 
ture so  great  beauty  and  bounty  "  withouten  mer- 
cie," — in  that  hope  he  makes  his  confession  of  love , 
and  he  goes  on  to  tell  us,  with  exquisite  naivete^  — 

I  wot  not  well  how  I  began, 

Full  evil  rehearse  it,  I  can: 

***** 

For  many  a  word  I  overskipt 

In  telling  my  tale — for  pure  fear, 

Lest  that  my  words  misconstrued  were. 

Softly,  and  quaking  for  pure  dred, 

And  shame, — 

Full  oft  I  wax'd  both  pale  and  red; 

I  durst  not  once  look  her  on, 

For  wit,  manner,  and  all  was  gone ; 

I  said,  "  Mercie,  sweet!  " — and  no  -acre. 


PHILIPPA    PICARD  121 

Then  his  anguish  at  her  first  rejection,  and  hil 
rapture  when,  at  last,  he  wins  from  his  lady 

The  noble  gift  of  her  mercie ; 

his  domestic  happiness — his  loss,  and  his  regrets, 
are  all  told  with  the  same  truth,  simplicity,  and 
profound  feeling.  For  such  passages  and  such  pic- 
tures as  these,  Chaucer  will  still  be  read,  triumph- 
ant as  the  poet  of  nature,  over  the  rust  and  dust 
of  ages,  and  all  the  difficulties  of  antique  style 
and  obsolete  spelling ;  which  last,  however,  though 
repulsive,  is  only  a  difficulty  to  the  eye,  and  easily 
overcome. 

To  return  to  Chaucer's  own  love.  In  the  opening 
lines  of  the  "  Booke  of  the  Duchesse,"  he  describes 
himself  as  wasted  with  his  "  eight  years'  sicknesse," 
alluding  to  his  long  courtship  of  the  coy  Philippa : 

I  have  great  wonder,  by  this  light, 
How  that  I  live  ! — for  day  nor  night 
I  may  not  sleepen  well-nigh  nought: 
I  have  so  many  an  idle  thought 
Purely  for  the  default  of  sleep ; 
That,  by  my  troth,  I  take  no  keep 
Of  nothing — how  it  com'th  or  go'th, 
To  me  is  nothing  liefe  or  lothe ;  * 
All  is  equal  good  to  me, 
Joy  or  sorrow — whereso  it  be ; 
For  I  have  feeling  in  no  thing 
But  am,  as  'twere,  a  mazed  f  thing, 

*  To  me  there  is  nothing  dear  or  hateful,  every  thing  IB  Indif- 
ferent. 

*  Mazed, — distracted. 


122  PHILIPPA   PICABD. 

All  day  in  point  to  fall  adown 
For  sorrowful  imagination,  &o. 

In  the  same  year  with  the  Duchess  died  the  good 
Queen  of  Edward  the  Third ;  and  Philippa  Picard 
being  thus  sadly  released  from  her  attendance  on 
her  mistress,  a  few  months  afterwards  married 
Chaucer,  then  in  his  forty-second  year. 

In  consequence  of  her  good  service,  Philippa 
had  a  pension  for  her  life ;  and  I  regret  that  little 
more  is  known  concerning  her :  but  it  should  seem 
that  she  was  a  good  and  tender  wife,  and  that  lonjr 
years  of  wedded  life  did  not  weaken  her  husband's 
attachment  for  her ;  for  she  accompanied  Chaucer 
wher^he  was  exiled,  about  fifteen  years  after  his 
marriage,  though  every  motive  of  prudence  and 
selfishness,  on  both  sides,  would  then  have  induced 
a  separation.*  Neither  was  the  poet  likely  to  be 
easily  satisfied  on  the  score  of  conjugal  obedience ; 
he  was  rather  exigeant  and  despotic,  if  we  may 
trust  his  own  description  of  a  perfect  wife.  The 
chivalrous  and  poetical  lover  was  the  slave  of  his 
mistress ;  but  once  married,  it  is  all  vice  versa. 

She  saith  not  once  nay,  when  he  saith  yea, 

"  Do  this,"  saith  he,  "  all  ready,  Sir,"  saith  she! 

The  precise  date  of  Philippa's  death  is  not  known 
but  it  took  place  some  years  before  that  of  her 
husband.  Their  residence  at  the  time  of  their 
marriage,  was  a  small  stone  building,  near  the  en- 
trance of  Woodstock  Park;  it  had  been  given  to 

*  Godwin's  Life  of  Chaucer,  v.  iii.  p.  5. 


PHILIPPA    PICARD.  1 23 

Chaucer  lay  Edward  the  Third;  afterwards  they 
resided  principally  at  Donnington  Castle,  that  fine 
and  striking  ruin,  which  must  be  remembered  by 
all  who  have  travelled  the  Newberry  road.  In  the 
domain  attached  to  this  castle  were  three  oaks,  of 
remarkable  size  and  beauty,  to  which  Chaucer 
gave  the  names  of  the  Queen's  oak,  the  King's  oak, 
and  Chaucer's  oak;  these  venerable  trees  were 
felled  in  Evelyn's  time,  and  are  commemorated  in 
his  Sylva,  as  among  the  noblest  of  their  species. 

Philippa's  eldest  son,  Thomas  Chaucer,  had  a 
daughter,  Alice,  who  became  the  wife  of  William 
de  la  Pole,  Duke  of  Suffolk,  the  famous  favorite 
of  Margaret  of  Anjou.  The  grandson  of  Alice 
Chaucer,  by  the  Duke  of  Suffolk,  John,  Earl  of 
Lincoln,  was  declared  heir  to  the  Crown  by  Rich- 
ard the  Third;*  and  had  the  issue  of  the -battle 
of  Bosworth  been  different,  would  undoubtedly 
have  ascended  the  throne  of  England ; — as  it  was, 
the  lineage  of  Chaucer  was  extinguished  on  a 
scaffold. 

The  fate  of  Catherine  Picard  de  Kouet,  the  sister 
of  Chaucer's  wife  was  still  more  remarkable, — she 
was  destined  to  be  the  mother  of  a  line  of  kings. 

She  had  been  domicella,  or  maid  of  honor,  to 
the  Duchess  Blanche,  after  whose  death,  the  infant 
children  of  the  Princess  were  committed  to  her 
care.f  In  this  situation  she  won  the  heart  of  their 

"  In  right  of  his  mother,  Elizabeth  Plantagenet,  eldest  sister 
of  Edward  IV. 

t  These  were  Henry  of  Lancaster,  afterwards  Henry  IV.,  Phi 
Bppa,  Queen  of  Portugal,  and  Elizabeth,  Duchess  of  Exeter. 


124  PHILIPPA   PICARD. 

father,  the  Duke  of  Lancaster,  who,  on  the  death 
of  his  second  wife,  Constance  of  Castile,  married 
Catherine,  and  his  children  by  her  were  solemnly 
legitimatized.  The  conduct  of  Catherine,  except 
in  one  instance,  had  been  irreproachable :  her  hu- 
mility, her  prudence,  and  her  various  accomplish- 
ments, not  only  reconciled  the  royal  family  and 
the  people  to  her  marriage,  but  added  lustre  to  her 
rank :  and  when  Richard  the  Second  married  Isa- 
bella of  France,  the  young  Queen,  then  only  nine 
years  old,  was  placed  under  the  especial  care  and 
tuition  of  the  Duchess  of  Lancaster. 

One  of  the  granddaughters  of  Catherine,  Lady 
Jane  Beaufort,  had  the  singular  fortune  of  becom- 
ing at  once  the  inspiration  and  the  love  of  a  great 
poet,  the  queen  of  an  accomplished  monarch,  and 
the  common  ancestress  of  all  the  sovereigns  of 
England  since  the  days  of  Elizabeth.* 

Never,  perhaps,  was  the  influence  of  woman  on 
a  poetic  temperament  more  beautifully  illustrated, 
than  in  the  story  of  James  the  First  of  Scotland, 
and  Lady  Jane  Beaufort  It  has  been  so  elegantly 
told  by  Washington  Irving  in  the  Sketch-Book, 
that  it  is  only  necessary  to  refer  to  it. — James, 
while  a  prisoner,  was  confined  in  Windsor  Castle, 

*  Catherine,  Duchess  of  Lancaster,  had  three  sons :  the  second 
was  the  famous  Cardinal  Beaufort ;  the  eldest  (created  Earl  of 
Somerset)  was  grandfather  to  Henry  the  Seventh,  and  conse- 
quently ancestor  to  the  whole  race  of  Tudor:  thus  from  th« 
Bister  of  Chaucer's  wife  are  descended  all  the  English  sovereigns, 
from  the  fifteenth  century ;  and  likewise  the  present  family  of 
flomerset.  Dukes  of  Beaufort. 


PHILIPPA    PICARD.  125 

and  immediately  under  his  window  there  was  a  fait 
garden,  in  which  the  Lady  Jane  was  accustomed 
to  walk  with  her  attendants,  distinguished  above 
them  all  by  her  beauty  and  dignity,  even  more 
than  her  state  and  the  richness  of  her  attire.  The 
young  uionarch'beheld  her  accidentally,  his  iinag- 
inatiot:  was  fired,  his  heart  captivated,  and  from 
that  moment  his  prison  was  no  longer  a  dungeon, 
but  a  palace  of  light  and  love.  As  he  was  the  best 
poet  and  musician  of  his  time,  he  composed  songs 
in  her  praise,  set  them  to  music,  and  sang  them  to 
his  lute.  He  also  wrote  the  history  of  his  love, 
tvith  alt  its  circumstances,  in  a  long  poem  *  still 
extant;  and  though  the  language  be  now  obsolete, 
it  is  described  by  those  who  have  studied  it,  as  not 
only  full  of  beauties  both  of  sentiment  and  expres- 
sion, but  unpolluted  by  a  single  thought  or  allusion 
which  the  most  refined  age,  or  the  most  fastidious 
delicacy  could  reject; — a  singular  distinction,  when 
we  consider  that  James's  only  models  must  have 
been  Gower  and  Chaucer,  to  whom  no  such  praise 
is  due  :  we  must  rather  suppose  that  he  was  no 
imitator,  but  that  he  owed  his  inspiration  to  modest 
and  queenly  beauty,  and  to  the  genuine  tender- 
ness of  his  own  heart.  His  description  of  the  fair 
apparition  who  came  to  bless  his  solitary  hours,  is 
so  minute  and  peculiar,  that  it  must  have  been 
drawn  from  the  life ; — the  net  of  pearls,  in  which 
her  light  tresses  were  gathered  up ;  the  chain  of 
fine-wrought  gold  about  her  neck  ;  the  heart-shaped 

*  "  The  King's  Quhair,"  (i.  e.  cakier  or  book.) 


126  PHILIPPA   PICARD. 

ruby  suspended  from  it,  which  glowed  on  her 
snowy  bosom  like  a  spark  of  fire ;  her  white  vest 
looped  up  to  facilitate  her  movements ;  her  grace- 
ful damsels  who  followed  at  a  respectful  distance ; 
and  her  little  dog  gambolling  round  with  her  with 
its  collar  of  silver  bells, — these,  and  other  pictu- 
resque circumstances,  were  all  noted  in  the  lover'i 
memory,  and  have  been  recorded  by  the  poet's 
verso.  And  he  sums  up  her  perfections  thus : — 

In  her  was  youth,  beauty,  and  numble  port, 
Bountee,  richesse,  and  womanly  feature. 

God  better  knows  than  my  pen  can  report, 
Wisdom,  largesse,*  estate,!  and  cunning  J  sure» 

In  every  point  so  guided  her  measure, 

In  word,  in  deed,  in  shape,  in  countenance, 
That  nature  could  no  more  her  child  advance. 

The  account  of  his  own  feelings  as  she  disappears 
from  his  charmed  gaze, — his  lingering  at  the  win- 
dow of  his  tower,  till  Phrebus 

Had  bid  farewell  to  every  leaf  and  flower, — 

then  resting  his  head  pensively  on  the  cold  stone, 
and  the  vision  which  steals  upon  his  half-waking 
half-dreaming  fancy,  and  shadows  forth  the  happy 
issue  of  his  love, — are  all  conceived  in  the  most 
lively  manner.  It  is  judged  from  internal  evidence, 
that  this  poem  must  have  been  finished  after  his 
marriage,  since  he  intimates  that  he  is  blessed  in 
the  possession  of  her  he  loved,  and  that  the  fail 
vision  of  the  solitary  dungeon  is  realized. 

*  Liberality.         1  Dignity.        4  Knowledge  and  discretion. 


PHILIPPA   PICATCD.  127 

When  the  King  of  Scots  was  released,  he  wooed 
and  won  openly,  and  as  a  monarch,  the  woman  he 
had  adored  in  secret.  The  marriage  was  solemnized 
in  1423,  and  he  carried  Lady  Jane  to  Scotland 
where  she  was  crowned  soon  after  his  bride  and 
queen. 

How  well  she  merited,  and  how  deeply  she  re- 
paid the  love  of  her  devoted  and  all-accomplished 
husband,  is  told  in  history.  When  James  was  sur- 
prised and  murdered  by  some  of  his  factious 
barons,  his  queen  threw  herself  between  him  and 
the  daggers  of  the  assassins,  received  many  of  the 
wounds  aimed  at  his  heart,  nor  could  they  complete 
their  purpose  till  they  had  dragged  her  by  force 
from  his  arms.  She  deserved  to  be  &  poet's  queen 
and  love !  These  are  the  souls,  the  deeds  which 
inspire  poetry, — or  rather  which  are  themselves 
poetry,  its  principle  and  its  essence.  It  was  on 
this  occasion  that  Catharine  Douglas,  one  of  the 
queen's  attendants,  thrust  her  arm  into  the  stanchion 
of  the  door  to  serve  the  purpose  of  a  bolt,  and  held 
it  there  till  the  savage  assailants  forced  their  way 
by  shattering  the  frail  defence.  What  times  were 
those  ! — alas  !  the  love  of  women,  and  the  baibarity 
of  men! 

-- 


128  LUCKETIA   DON  ATI. 

CHAPTER  XL 

LORENZO    DE*    MEDICI    AND    LUCKETIA    DONATI. 

To  Lorenzo  de'  Medici, — or  rather  to  the  pre- 
eminence his  personal  qualities,  his  family  posses- 
sions, and  his  unequalled  talents,  gave  him  over  his 
countrymen, — some  late  travellers  and  politicians 
have  attributed  the  downfall  of  the  liberties  of 
Florence,  and  attacked  his  memory  as  the  pre- 
cursor of  tyrants  and  the  preparer  of  slaves.  It 
may  be  so  : — yet  was  it  the  fault  of  Lorenzo,  if  his 
collateral  posterity  afterwards  became  the  oppress- 
ors of  that  State  of  which  he  was  the  family  and 
the  saviour  ?  And  since  in  this  world  some  must 
command  and  some  obey,  what  power  is  so  legiti- 
mate as  that  derived  from  the  influence  of  superior 
virtue  and  talent  ?  from  the  employ  of  riches 
obtained  by  honorable  industry,  and  expended 
with  princely  munificence,  and  subscribed  to  by 
the  will  and  the  affections  of  the  people  ? 

But  I  forget : — these  are  questions  foreign  to  our 
subject.  Politics  I  never  could  understand  in  my 
life,  and  history  I  have  forgotten, — or  would  wish 
to  forget, — perplexed  by  its  conflicting  evidence, 
and  shocked  by  its  interminable  tissue  of  horrors 
Let  others  then  scale  the  height  while  we  gather 
flowers  at  the  foot ;  let  others  explore  the  mazes 
of  the  forest ;  ours  be  rather 


LUCRETIA    DONATI.  329 

The  gay  parterre,  the  checkered  shade, 
The  morning  bower,  the  evening  colonnade, 
Those  soft  recesses  of  uneasy  minds, 

whence  the  din  of  doleful  war,  the  rumor  of  cruelty 
and  suffering,  and  all  the  "  fitful  stir  unprofitable  " 
of  the  world  are  shut  out,  and  only  the  beautiful 
and  good,  or  the  graceful  and  the  gay,  are  ad- 
mitted. There  have  been  pens  enough,  Heaven 
knows,  to  chronicle  the  wrongs,  the  crimes,  the 
sorrows  of  our  sex  :  why  should  I  add  an  echo  to 
that  voice,  which  from  the  beginning  has  cried 
aloud  in  the  wilderness  of  this  world,  upon  women 
betrayed,  and  betraying  in  self-defence  V  A  nobler 
and  more  grateful  task  be  mine  to  show  them  how 
much  of  what  is  most  fair,  most  excellent,  most 
sublime  among  the  productions  of  human  genius, 
has  been  owing  to  their  influence,  direct  or  in- 
direct ;  and  call  up  the  spirits  of  the  dead, — those 
who  from  their  silent  urns  still  rule  the  pulses  of 
our  hearts — to  bear  witness  to  this  truth. 
***** 

It  is  not,  then,  Lorenzo  the  MAGNIFICENT,  the 
statesman,  and  the  chief  of  a  great  republic,  who 
finds  a  place  in  these  pages, — but  Lorenzo  the 
lover  and  the  poet,  round  whose  memory  hover  a 
thousand  bright  recollections  connected  with  the 
revival  of  arts  and  literature,  and  the  golden  age 
of  Italy.  Let  politicians  say  what  they  will,  there 
is  a  spell  of  harmony,  there  is  music  in  his  very 
name  !  how  softly  the  vowelled  syllables  drop  from 
the  lips — LORENZO  DE'  MEDICI  ! — it  even  looks 
9 


180  LUCRETIA    DONATI. 

elegant  when  written.  Yes,  there  is  something  m 
the  mere  sound  of  a  name.  I  remember  once 
taking  up  a  book,  and  a  very  celebrated  book,  in 
which,  after  turning  over  some  of  the  pages  witt 
pleasure,  I  came  to  Peter  and  Laurence  Medecis, — 
I  shut  it  hastily,  as  I  would  have  covered  my  ears 
to  protect  them  from  a  sudden  discord  in  music. 

Between  Petrarch  and  Lorenzo  de' Medici,  there, 
occurs  not  a  single  great  name  in  Italian  poetry. 
The  century  seemed  to  lie  fallow,  as  if  preparing 
for  the  great  birth  of  various  genius  which  dis- 
tinguished the  succeeding  age.  The  sciences  and 
the  classics  were  chiefly  studied,  and  philosophy 
and  Greek  seemed  to  have  banished  love  and 
poetry. 

In  such  a  state  of  things,  it  is  rather  surprising 
to  find  in  Lorenzo  de'  Medici  the  common  case  re- 
versed ;  for  by  his  own  confession,  it  appears  that 
it  was  not  love  which  made  him  a  poet,  but  poetry 
which  made  him  a  lover. 

Giuliano,  the  brother  of  Lorenzo, — he  who  was 
afterwards  assassinated  by  the  Pazzi,  and  was  so 
beloved  at  Florence  for  his  amiable  character  and 
personal  accomplishments,  had  been  seized  with  a 
passion  for  a  lady  named  Simonetta,  who  was 
esteemed  the  most  beautiful  woman  in  Florence, 
and  is  scarcely  ever  mentioned  but  with  the  epithet, 
"  La  bella  Simonetta." — She  died  in  the  bloom  of 
early  youth,  and  all  the  wit  and  eloquence  of  her 
native  city  were  called  forth  in  condolences  ad- 
dressed to  Giuliano,  or  elegies  to  her  memory,  in 


LUCRETIA   DONATI.  131 

pr«<e  and  verse,  Latin,  Greek,  and  Italian.  Among 
the  rest,  Lorenzo,  who  had  already  made  several 
attempts  in  Italian  poetry,  pressed  forward  to 
celebrate  the  love  and  the  loss  of  his  amiable 
brother : — in  his  zeal  to  do  justice  to  so  dear  a 
subject,  he  worked  himself  up  into  a  fit  of  amo- 
rous and  poetical  enthusiasm  which  soon  found  a 
real  and  living  beauty  for  its  object.  But  to  give 
this  romantic  tale  its  proper  effect,  it  must  be  re 
lated  in  Lorenzo's  own  words.  He  has  left  us  a 
most  circumstantial  and  elegant  as  well  as  interest- 
ing and  fanciful  account  of  the  birth  and  progress 
of  his  poetic  passion,  and  I  extract  it  at  length 
from  Mr.  Roscoe's  translation. 

"  A  young  lady  of  great  personal  attractions 
happened  to  die  at  Florence  ;  and  as  she  had  been 
very  generally  admired  and  beloved,  so  her  death 
was  as  generally  lamented.  Nor  was  this  to  be 
much  wondered  at ;  for,  independent  of  her  beauty, 
her  manners  were  so  engaging,  that  almost  every 
person  who  had  any  acquaintance  with  her  flat- 
tered himself  that  he  had  obtained  the  chief  place 
in  her  affections."  (In  other  words,  this  beautiful 
Simonetta  was  an  exquisite  coquette.) 

"  This  fatal  event  excited  the  extreme  regret  of 
her  admirers ;  and  as  she  was  carried  to  the  place 
of  burial,  with  her  face  uncovered,  those  who  had 
known  her  when  living,  pressed  for  a  last  look  at 
the  object  of  their  adoration,  and  accompanied  her 
^uueral  with  their  tears. 

"  On  this  occasion,  all  the  eloquence,  and  all  the 


132  LUCRETIA    DONATI. 

wit  of  Florence  were  exerted  in  paying  due 
honors  to  her  memory,  both  in  prose  and  verse. 
Amongst  the  rest,  I  also  composed  a  few  sonnets; 
and  in  order  to  give  them  greater  effect,  I  en- 
deavored to  convince  myself,  that  I  too  had  been 
deprived  of  the  object  of  my  love,  and  to  excite, 
in  my  own  mind  all  those  passions  that  might 
enable  me  to  move  the  affections  of  others. — Under 
the  influence  of  this  delusion,  I  began  to  think  how 
severe  was  the  fate  of  those  by  whom  she  had  been 
beloved;  and  from  thence  was  led  to  consider, 
whether  there  was  any  other  lady  in  this  city  de- 
serving of  such  honor  and  praise,  and  to  imagine 
the  happiness  that  must  be  experienced  by  any 
one,  whose  good  fortune  could  procure  him  such  a 
subject  for  his  pen.  I  accordingly  sought  for  some 
time  without  having  the  satisfaction  of  rinding  any 
one,  who  in  my  judgment  was  deserving  of  a 
sincere  and  constant  attachment.  But  when  I  had 
nearly  resigned  all  expectations  of  success,  chance 
threw  in  my  way  that  which  had  been  denied  to 
my  most  diligent  inquiry ;  as  if  the  God  of  Love 
had  selected  this  hopeless  period,  to  give  me  a  more 
decisive  proof  of  his  power.  A  public  festival  was 
held  in  Florence,  to  which  all  that  was  noble  and 
beautiful  in  the  city  resorted.  To  this  I  wag 
brought  by  some  of  my  companions  (I  suppose  as 
my  destiny  led)  against  my  will,  for  I  had  for  some 
time  past  avoided  such  exhibitions ;  or  if  at  times  I 
attended  them,  it  proceeded  rather  from  a  com- 
pliance with  custom,  than  from  any  pleasure  I 


LUCRETIA   DOS  ATI.  135 

experienced  in  them.  Among  the  ladies  there 
assembled,  I  saw  one  of  such  sweet  and  attractive 
manners,  that  while  I  regarded  her,  I  could  not 
help  saying,  '  If  this  person  were  possessed  of  the 
delicacy,  the  understanding,  the  accomplishments 
of  her  who  is  so  lately  dead — most  certainly  she 
excels  her  in  the  charms  of  her  person.' — 
***** 

"  Resigning  myself  to  my  passion,  I  endeavored 
to  discover,  if  possible,  how  far  her  manners  and 
her  conversation  agreed  with  her  appearance ;  and 
here  I  found  such  an  assemblage  of  extraordinary 
endowments,  that  it  was  difficult  to  say  whether  she 
excelled  more  in  person  or  in  mind.  Her  beauty 
was,  as  I  have  before  mentioned,  astonishing.  She 
was  of  a  just  and  proper  height.  Her  complexion 
extremely  fair,  but  not  pale, — blooming  but  not 
ruddy.  Her  countenance  was  serious,  without 
being  severe, — mild  and  pleasant  without  levity  or 
vulgarity.  Her  eyes  were  lively,  without  any  indi- 
cation of  pride  or  conceit.  Her  whole  shape  was 
so  finely  proportioned,  that  amongst  other  women 
she  appeared  with  superior  dignity,  yet  free  from 
the  least  degree  of  formality  or  affectation.  In  walk-' 
ing,  in  dancing,  or  in  other  exercises  which  display 
the  person,  every  motion  was  elegant  and  appro- 
priate. Her  sentiments  were  always  just  and 
striking,  and  have  furnished  materials  for  some  of 
my  sonnets ;  she  always  spoke  at  the  proper  time, 
and  always  to  the  purpose,  so  that  nothing  could 
ta  added,  nothing  taken  away.  Though  her 


134  LUCRETIA   DONATI. 

remarks  were  often  keen  and  pointed,  yet  they 
were  so  tempered  as  not  to  give  offence.  Her 
understanding  was  superior  to  her  sex,  but  without 
the  appearance  of  arrogance  or  presumption  ;  and 
she  avoided  an  error  too  common  among  women, 
who,  when  they  think  themselves  sensible,  become 
for  the  most  part  insupportable.*  To  recount  all 
her  excellences  would  far  exceed  my  present 
limits,  and  I  shall  therefore  conclude  with  affirming, 
that  there  was  nothing  which  could  be  desired  in  a 
beautiful  and  an  accomplished  woman,  which  was 
not  in  her  most  abundantly  found.  By  these  quali- 
ties I  was  so  captivated,  that  not  a  power  or  faculty 
of  my  body  or  mind  remained  any  longer  at  liberty, 
and  I  could  not  help  considering  the  lady  who  had 
died,  as  the  star  of  Venus,  which  at  the  approach 
of  the  sun  is  totally  overpowered  and  extin- 
guished." 

The  real  name  of  this  beautiful  and  accomplished 
creature,  Lorenzo  was  too  discreet  to  reveal ;  but 
from  contemporary  authors,  we  learn  that  she  was 
Lucretia  Donati — a  noble  lady,  distinguished  at 
Florence  for  her  virtue  and  beauty,  and  of  the 
same  illustrious  family  which  had  given  a  wife  to 
Dante. 

When  Lorenzo  undertook  to  fall  in  love  thus 
poetically,  he  was  only  twenty :  the  experiment 
was  perilous;  and  it  is  not  wonderful  that  thia 

*  Lorenzo  tells  us  in  the  original,  that  the  ladies  who  rendered 
themselves  thus  insupportable,  were  called  (vulgarly)  Saccenti" 
-query— vulgarly,  Blue-stockings  f 


LUCRETIA    DON  ATI.  133 

imaginary  passion  had  at  first  in  his  ardent  and 
susceptible  mind  all  the  effects  of  a  real  one :  he 
neglected  society — abandoned  himself  to  musing 
and  solitude — affected  the  rural  shades,  and  gave 
up  his  time,  and  devoted  all  his  powers,  to  ceh> 
brate,  in  the  richest  coloring  of  poetry,  her  whom 
he  had  selected  to  be  the  mistress  of  his  heart,  or 
rather  the  presiding  goddess  of  his  fancy. 

The  result  is  exactly  what  may  be  imagined,  and 
a  proof  of  the  theory  on  which  I  insist,  that  "  noth- 
ing but  what  arises  from  the  heart  goes  to  the 
heart,  and  that  the  verse  which  never  quickened  a 
pulso  in  the  bosom  of  the  poet,  never  awakened  a 
throb  in  that  of  his  reader."  If  I  were  required 
to  express  in  one  word  the,  distinguishing  character 
of  Lorenzo's  amatory  poems,  I  should  say  grace : 
they  are  full  of  refined  sentiment,  elegant  simplic- 
ity, the  most  exquisite  little  touches  of  description, 
and  illustrations,  drawn  either  from  external  nature 
or  from  the  refined  mysteries  of  platonism :  but 
there  is  a  want  of  passion,  of  power,  and  of  pathos; 
there  is  no  genuine  emotion ;  no  overflow  of  the 
heart,  bursting  with  its  own  intense  feeling;  no 
voice  that  cries  aloud  for  our  sympathy,  and  echoes 
to  our  inmost  bosom.  What  true  lover  ever  thought 
of  apologizing  for  having  given  his  time  to  celebrate 
the  object  of  his  love  ?  "  Persecuted  as  I  have 
oeen  from  my  youth,"  says  Lorenzo,  "  some  indul- 
gence may  perhaps  be  allowed  me  for  having 
sought  consolation  in  these  pursuits." — And  again, 
in  allusion  to  his  political  situation, — "  It  is  not  to 


186  LUCRETIA   DONATI. 

be  wondered  at  if  I  endeavoured  to  alleviate  raj 
anxiety  by  turning  to  more  agreeable  subjects  of 
meditation ;  and  in  celebrating  tlie  charms  of  my 
mistress,  sought  a  temporary  refuge  from  my 
cares." — Thus  Lorenzo  tells  us  that  it  was  not  in 
obedience  to  the  dictates  of  his  own  overflowing 
heart,  nor  yet  to  celebrate  the  charms  of  his  mis- 
tress, and  win  her  favor,  that  he  wrote  in  her 
praise,  but  to  amuse  himself  and  distract  his  mind 
from  those  cares  and  anxieties  into  which  he  was 
so  early  plunged.  It  has  followed  as  a  natural  con- 
sequence, that  elegant  as  are  the  amatory  effusion.! 
of  Lorenzo,  they  are  less  celebrated,  less  popular, 
than  his  descriptive  and  moral  poems.  His  Ambra, 
La  Nencia,  and  his  songs  for  the  carnival,  have  all 
in  their  respective  style  a  higher  stamp  of  excel- 
lence and  originality  than  his  love  poetry.  His 
forte  seems  to  have  been  lively  description,  philo- 
sophical illustration,  and  brilliant  and  sportive 
fancy,  combined  with  a  classic  taste  and  polished 
versification.  Some  of  those  sonnets,  which, 
though  addressed  to  Madonna  Lucretia,  turn 
chiefly  on  some  beautiful  thought  or  description, 
arc  finished  like  gems ;  as  that  on  Solitude — 

Cerchi  clii  vuol  le  pompe  e  gli  alti  onori ; 

and  that  well  known  and  charming  one,  u  Sopra 
Violetti," 

Non  di  verdi  giardin,  ornati  e  colti,  &c. 
both  of  which  havejjeen  happily  translated  by 


LUCRETIA   DONATI.  187 

ftoscoe  ;  and  to  these  may  be  added  the  address  to 
Cytherea — 

Lascia  1'  sola  itua  tanta  diletta ! 

Lascia  il  tuo  regno  delicate  e  bello 

Ciprigna  Dea !  &c. 

There  is  another,  not  so  well  known,  distinguishet 
by  its  peculiar  fancy  and  elegance — 

Spesso  mi  torna  a  mente,  anzi  gia  mai,  &c. 

In  this  he  recalls  to  mind  the  time  and  the  place, 
and  even  the  vesture  in  which  his  gentle  lady  first 
appeared  to  him — 

Quanto  vaga,  gentil,  leggiadra,  e  pia 
Non  si  pub  dir,  ne  imagiiiar  assai ; 

and  he  beautifully  adds, 

Quale  sopra  i  nevosi,  ed  alti  monti 
Apollo  spande  il  suo  bel  lume  adorno, 
Tal'  i  crin  suoi  sopra  la  bianca  gonna ! 
H  tempo  e  '1  luogo  non  convien  ch'  io  conti, 
Che  dov'  e  si  bel  sole  e  sempre  giorno ; 
E  Paradiso,  ov'  e  si  bella  Donna! 

"  As  over  the  snowy  summits  of  the  high  moun- 
tains Apollo  sheds  his  golden  beams,  so  flowed  her 
golden  tresses  over  her  white  vest. — But  for  the 
time  and  the  place,  is  it  necessary  that  I  should  note 
them  ?  Where  shines  so  fair  a  sun,  can  it  be  other 
than  day  ?  Where  dwells  so  excellent  a  beauty, 
?an  it  be  other  than  Paradise  ?  " 

It  happened  in  the  midst  of  Lorenzo's  visions  of 
tove  and  poetry,  that  he  was  called  upon  to  give  hi* 


138  LUCRETIA    DONATI. 

hand  to  a  wife  chosen  by  his  father  for  political 
reasons.  His  inclinations  were  not  consulted,  as  is 
plain  from  the  blunt  amusing  manner  in  which  he 
has  noted  it  down  in  his  memoranda.  "  I,  Lorenzo, 
took  to  wife  Donna  Clarice  Orsini, — or  rather  she 
was  t^iven  to  me,  (ovvero  mi  fu  data)  on  such  a 
day."  Yet  a  union  thus  inauspiciously  contracted, 
was  rendered,  by  the  affectionate  disposition  of 
Lorenzo,  and  the  amiable  qualities  of  his  wife, 
rather  happy  than  otherwise ;  it  is  true,  we  have 
no  poetical  compliments  addressed  by  Lorenzo  to 
Donna  Clarice,  but  there  is  extant  a  little  billet 
written  to  her  a  few  months  after  their  marriage, 
from  the  tone  of  which  it  is  fair  to  suppose,  that 
Lorenzo  had  exchanged  his  poetic  flame  for  a  real 
attachment  to  an  amiable  woman.* 

There  is  a  very  beautiful  and  elegant  passage  in 
the  beginning  of  Lorenzo's  commentary  on  his 
own  poems,  in  which  he  enlarges  on  the  theory  of 
love.  "  The  conditions  (he  says)  which  appear 
necessarily  to  belong  to  a  true,  exalted,  and  worthy 
love,  are  two.  First, — to  love  but  one :  secondly, — 
to  love  that  one  always.  Not  many  lovers  have 

*  Lorenzo  de'  Medici  to  his  \rife  Clarice : — 

"  I  arrived  here  in  safety,  and  am  in  good  health ;  this,  I  beliere, 
will  please  thee  better  than  any  thing  else,  except  my  return, 
at  least  so  I  judge  from  my  own  desire  to  be  once  more  with 
thee.  Associate  as  much  as  possible  with  my  father  and  sisters. 
I  shall  make  all  possible  speed  to  return  to  thee,  for  it  appears 
a  thousand  years  till  I  see  thee  again.  Pray  to  God  for  me— if 
thou  want  any  thing  from  this  place  write  in  time. 

From  Milan,  22d  July,  1469.  THY  LORENZO." 


LUCRETIA    DONATI.  *39 

hearts  so  generous  as  to  be  capable  of  fulfilling 
these  two  conditions  ;  and  exceedingly  few  women 
display  sufficient  attractions  to  withhold  men  from 
the  violation  of  them ;  yet  without  these  there  is 
no  true  love."  And  afterwards,  enumerating  those 
charms  of  person  and  mind  which  inspire  affection, 
he  adds,  "  and  yet  these  estimable  qualities  are  not 
enough,  unless  the  lover  possess  sensibility  of  heart 
to  discern  them,  and  elevation  and  generosity  of 
soul  to  appreciate  them." 

This  in  the  original  is  very  elegantly  expressed, 
and  the  sentiment  is  as  true  as  it  is  exalted  and 
graceful ;  but  that  Lorenzo  was  not  always  thus 
philosophically  refined,  that  he  could  descend  from 
these  Platonics  to  be  impassioned  and  in  earnest, 
and  that  when  touched  to  the  heart,  he  could  pour 
forth  the  language  of  the  heart,  we  have  a  single 
instance,  which  it  is  impossible  to  allude  to  without 
feeling  some  emotion  of  curiosity,  which  can  nevei 
now  be  gratified. 

We  find  among  Lorenzo's  poems,  written  later 
in  life  than  those  addressed  to  Lucretia  Donati,  one 
entitled  simply  "  An  Elegy  ;  "  the  style  is  different 
from  that  of  his  earlier  poetry,  and  has  more  of  the 
terseness  and  energy  of  Dante  than  the  sweetness 
<md  flow  of  Petrarch.  It  begins 

"  Vinto  dagli  amorosi,  empi  martin." 

"  Subdued  by  the  fierce  pangs  of  my  love,  a 
thousand  times  have  I  taken  up  the  pen,  to  tell 


140  LUCRETIA   DONATI. 

thee,  O  gentle  lady  mine,  all  the  sighs  of  my  sick 
heart.  Then  fearing  thy  displeasure,  I  have,  on  a 
second  thought,  flung  it  from  me.  *  *  *  Yet  must 
I  speak,  for  if  words  were  wanting,  my  pallid  cheek 
would  betray  my  sufferings." 

He  then  tells  her  that  he  does  not  seek  her  dis- 
honor, but  only  her  kind  thoughts,  and  that  he  may 
find  a  place  within  her  gentle  heart. 

Perch6  non  cerco  alcun  tuo  disonore, 

Ma  sol  la  grazia  tua,  e  che  piaci 

Che  '1  mio  albergo  sia  dentro  al  tuo  core ! 

He  wishes  that  he  might  be  once  permitted  to 
twine  his  fingers  in  her  hair;  to  gaze  into  her  eyes; 
— but  he  complains  that  she  will  not  even  meet  his 
look, — that  she  resolutely  turns  her  eyes  another 
way  at  his  approach. — "  But  do  with  me  what  thou 
wilt :  while  I  live  upon  this  earth,  still  I  must  love 
thee,  since  it  so  pleaseth  Heaven — I  swear  it !  and 
my  hand  writes  it ! 

***** 

".Come  then !  oh  come,  while  yet  thy  gracious 
looks  may  avail  me,  for  delay  is  death  to  one  who 
loves  like  me !  Would  I  could  send  with  this  scroll 
all  the  torture  of  heart,  the  tears  and  sighs,  the 
gesture  and  the  look,  that  should  accompany  it,  1 " 

Ma  s'  egli  awien,  che  soletti  ambo  insfeme, 
Posso  il  braccio  tenerti  al  collo  awolto, 
Vedrai  come  d'amore  alto  arde  e  geme, 
Vedrai  cader  dal  mio  pallido  volto, 
N  jl  tuo  oandido  sen  lagrime  tante. 


LUCRETIA   DONATI.  14 J 

(I  leave  these  lines  untranslated  for  the  benefit  of 
the  Italian  reader.)  After  a  few  more  stanzas,  we 
have  this  very  unequivocal  passage  : 

"  O  would  to  Heaven,  lady,  that  marriage  had 
made  us  one  !  ah,  why  didst  thou  not  come  into  this 
world  a  litile  sooner? — or  I  a  little  later?  Yet 
why  these  vain  thoughts  ?  since  I  am  doomed  to 
see  thee  the  bride  of  another,  and  ani  myself  fet- 
tered in  these  marriage  bonds  ! 

***** 

"  Thou  knowest,  Madonna,  that  these  sighs,  these 
burning  words,  are  not  feigned :  for  even  as  Love 
die  bates  does  my  hand  write. 

***** 

"  My  life  and  death  are  with  thee ; — grant  me 
but  a  few  words,  and  I  am  content  to  live  ; — if  not, 
let  me  die  !  and  let  my  poor  remains  be  laid  in 
some  forlorn  and  sequestered  spot.  Let  none 
whisper  the  cause  of  my  death,  lest  it  should  grieve 
thee !  enough  if  some  kind  hand  engrave  upon  my 
tomb, — 'He  perished  through  too  much  love  and  too 
much  cruelty. ' " 

I  have  given  literally  the  leading  sentiments  of 
this  little  poem,  but  have  left  untranslated  many 
of  the  stanzas.  There  are  one  or  two  concetti; 
but  as  Ginguene  truly  observes  on  a  different 
occasion,  "  Dans  les  poetes  Italiens,  souvent  la 
passion  est  vraie,  meme  quand  1'expression  ne  Test 
pas." 

The  style  is  so  natural,  the  transitions  so  abrupt, 
the  expressions  so  energetic,  and  there  are  so  few 


I  *2  LUCRETIA   DONATI. 

af  those  descriptive  ornaments  which  are  plenti- 
fully scattered  through  Lorenzo's  other  poems,  that 
I  should  pronounce  it  the  real  effusion  of  a  heart, 
touched, — and  deeply  touched.  It  is  to  be  regret- 
ted that  we  know  nothing  of  the  name  or  reai 
character  of  an  object  who,  deserving  or  not,  could 
call  forth  such  strong  lines  as  these ;  and  in  the 
plenitude  of  his  power  and  fame,  and  in  the  midst 
of  his  great  and  serious  avocations,  deeply,  though 
secretly,  tyrannize  over  the  peace  of  Lorenzo. 

He  is  accused, — I  regret  that  I  must  allude  to  it, 
— of  considerable  license  of  manners  with  regard  to 
women  ; — a  reproach  from  which  Roscoe  has  fairly 
vindicated  him.  United,  at  the  age  of  twenty-one, 
to  a  woman  he  had  never  seen  ;  residing  in  a  dis- 
sipated capital,  surrounded  by  temptation,  and  from 
disposition,  peculiarly  sensible  to  the  influence  of 
women,  it  is  not  matter  of  astonishment  if  Loren- 
zo's conjugal  faith  was  not  preserved  immaculate, 
— if  he  occasionally  became  the  thrall  of  beauty, 
and — (since  he  was  not  likely  to  be  caught  by  vul- 
gar charms,) — if  he  sighed,  par  hazard,  for  one 
who  was  not  to  be  tempted  by  power  or  gold :  such 
a  one  as  his  Elegy  indicates.  Two  points  are  cer- 
tain,— that  his  uniform  respect  and  kindness  to  his 
wife  Clarice,  left  her  no  reason  to  complain  ;  while 
his  discretion  was  such,  that  though  historians  have 
hazarded  a  general  accusation  against  him  in  thia 
one  particular,  there  exists  not  in  any  contempo- 
rary writer  one  scandalous  anecdote  of  his  private 
life,  nor  the  name  of  any  woman  to  whom  he  was 


LUCRETIA    DONATI.  143 

attached,  except  that  of  his  poetical  love,  I  mcretia 
Donati. 

Lorenzo  do'  Medici  was  not  handsome  in  face, 
nor  graceful  in  form  ;  but  he  was  captivating  in  his 
manners,  and  excelled  in  all  manly  exercises.  The 
engraving  prefixed  to  Roscoe's  life  of  him,  does  net 
do  justice  to  his  countenance.  I  remember  the  orig- 
inal picture  in  the  gallery  of  Florence,  on  which 
I  have  looked  day  after  day  for  many  minutes  to- 
gether, with  an  interest  that  can  only  be  felt  on 
the  very  spot  where  the  memory  of  Lorenzo  is 
"  wherever  we  look,  wherever  we  move."  In  spite 
of  the  stoop  in  the  shoulders,  the  unbecoming 
dress,  and  the  harsh  features,  I  was  struck  by  the 
grand  simplicity  of  the  head,  and  the  mingled  ex- 
pression of  acuteness,  benevolence,  and  earnest 
thought  in  the  countenance  ;  the  imagination  filled 
with  the  splendid  character  of  the  man,  might  pos- 
sibly have  perceived  more  than  the  eye, — but  such 
was  my  impression. 

Lorenzo  died  in  his  forty-fourth  year,  in  1492. 
He  is  not  interred  in  that  celebrated  chapel  of  hia 
family,  rich  with  the  sublimest  productions  of  Mi- 
chael Angelo's  chisel :  he  lies  at  the  opposite  side 
of  the  church,  in  a  magnificent  sarcophagus  of 
bronze,  which  contains  also  the  ashes  of  his  mur- 
dered brother,  Giuliano. — Among  the  recollections, 
sweet  and  bitter,  which  I  brought  from  Florence, 
is  the  remembrance  of  a  day  when  retiring  from 
the  glare  of  an  Italian  noontide,  I  stood  m  the 
church  of  San  Lorenzo,  sketching  the  tomb  of  Lo 


144  TH1.    FAIR    GERALDINE. 

renzo  and  Giuliano  de'  Medici.  The  spot  whence 
I  viewed  it  was  so  obscure,  that  I  could  scarce  see 
the  lines  traced  by  my  pencil ;  but  immediately  be- 
hind the  sarcophagus,  there  flowed  from  above  a 
stream  of  strong  light,  relieving  with  added  effect 
the  dark  outline  of  the  sculptured  ornaments. 
Through  the  grating  which  formed  the  background, 
I  could  see  the  figures  of  shaven  monks  and  stoled 
priests  gliding  to  and  fro,  like  apparitions ;  and 
while  I  thought  more, — O  much  more, — of  the  still 
and  cold  repose  which  wrapped  the  dead,  than  of 
their  high  deeds  and  far-spread  fame,  the  plaintive 
music  of  a  distant  choir,  chanting  the  Via  crucis, 
floated  through  the  pillared  aisles,  receding  or  ap- 
proaching as  the  signers  changed  their  station ; 
swelling,  sinking,  and  at  length  dying  away  on  the 
ear. 


CHAPTER 


THE   FAIR   GERALDINE. 

IN  the  reign  of  the  second  Grande  Duke  of  Tus 
cany,  of  Lorenzo's  family,  (Cosmo  I.)  Florence,  it 
is  said,  beheld  a  novel  and  extraordinary  spectacle  , 
a  young  traveller,  from  a  court  and  a  country 
which  the  Italians  of  that  day  seemed  to  regard 


TIIK    FAIR    GERALDJNfc.  144 

much  as  we  now  do  the  Esquimaux,*  combining 
the  learning  of  the  scholar  and  the  amiable  bear- 
ing of  the  courtier,  with  all  the  rash  bravery  of 
youthful  romance,  astonished  the  inhabitants  of 
that  queenly  city,  first,  by  rivalling  her  polished 
nobles  in  the  splendor  of  his  state,  and  gallantry  of 
his  manners,  and  next,  by  boldly  proclaiming  that 
his  "  lady  love  "  was  superior  to  all  that  Italy  could 
varnt  of  beauty,  that  she  was  "  oltre  le  belle, 
bel)a,"  fair  beyond  the  fairest,— and  maintaining 
his  boast  in  a  solemn  tourney  held  in  her  honor,  to 
the  overthrow  of  all  his  opponents. 

This  was  our  English  Surrey ;  one  of  the  earli- 
est and  most  elegant  of  our  amatory  poets,  and  the 
lover  of  the  Fair  Geraldine. 

It  must  be  admitted  that  the  fame  of  the  Earl 
of  Surrey  does  not  rest  merely  on  title,  and  that  if 
the  fair  Geraldine  had  never  existed,  he  would 
Btill  have  lived  in  history  as  .an  accomplished 
scholar,  soldier,  courtier,  and  been  lamented  as  the 
noble  victim  of  a  suspicious  tyrant.  But  if  some 
fair  object  of  romantic  gallantry  had  not  given  the 
impulse  to  his  genius,  and  excited  him  to  try  his 
powers  in  a  style  of  which  no  models  yet  existed 
ill  his  native  language,! — it  may  be  doubted 
whether  his  name  would  have  descended  to  us 
with  all  those  poetical  and  chivalrous  associations 

*  "  Those  bears  of  English — those  barbarous  islanders,"  are 
common  phrases  in  the  Italian  writers  of  that  age. 

t  Surrey  introduced  the  sonnet,  and  the  use  of  blank  Terse 
Into  our  literature.    It  is  a  curious  fact,  that  the  curliest  blank 
Terse  extant  was  written  by  Saint  Francis. 
10 


146  THE    FAIR    GERALDINE. 

which  give  a  charm  and  an  interest  to  his  memory 
far  beyond  that  of  a  mere  historical  character.  Aa 
for  the  fair-haired,  blue-eyed  Geraldine,  the  mis- 
tress of  his  fancy  and  affections,  and  the  subject 
of  his  verse,  her  identity  long  lay  entombed,  as  it 
were,  in  a  poetical  name  ;  but  Surrey  had  loved 
her,  had  maintained  her  beauty  at  the  point  of  his 
lance — had  made  her  "  famous  by  his  pen,  and  glo- 
rious by  his  sword."  This  was  more  than  enough 
*o  excite  the  interest  and  the  enquiries  of  posterity, 
aud  lo  !  antiquaries  and  commentators  fell  to  work, 
archives  were  searched,  genealogies  were  traced, 
and  at  length  the  substance  of  this  beautiful  poet- 
ical shadow  was  detected  :  she  was  proved  to  have 
been  the  Lady  Elizabeth  Fitzgerald,  afterwards 
the  wife  of  a  certain  Earl  of  Lincoln,  of  whom 
little  is  known — but  that  he  married  the  woman 
Surrey  had  loved. 

Surrey  has  ingeniously  contrived  to  compress, 
within  the  compass  of  a  sonnet,  some  of  the  most 
interesting  particulars  of  the  personal  and  family 
history  of  his  mistress.  The  Fitzgeralds  derive 
their  origin  from  the  Geraldi  of  Tuscany, — hence 

From  Tuscan  came  my  ladye's  worthy  race, 
Fair  Florence  was  sometime  their  ancient  seat. 

She  was  born  and  nurtured  in  Ireland — 

Fostered  she  was  with  milk  of  Irish  breast. 

Her  father  was  the  Earl  of  Kildare,  her  mother 
allied  to  the  blood  roval. 


THE    FAIR    GERALDINE.  147 

tier  sire  an  Earl,  her  dame  of  Prince's  blood. 

She  was  brought  up  (through  motives  of  compas- 
sion, after  the  misfortunes  of  her  family)  at  Huns- 
don,  -with  the  Princesses  Mary  and  Elizabeth, 
where  Surrey,  who  frequently  visited  them  in  com- 
pany with  the  young  Duke  of  Richmond,*  first 
beheld  her. 

Hunsdon  did  first  present  her  to  mine  eyes. 

She  was  then  extremely  young,  not  above  fourteen 
or  fifteen,  as  it  appears  from  comparative  dates 
and  Surrey  says  very  clearly, 

She  wanted  years  to  understand 
The  grief  that  he  did  feel.    . 

But  even  then  her  budding  charms  made  him  con 
fess,  as  he  beautifully  expresses  it — 

How  soon  a  look  can  print  a  thought 
That  never  may  remove ! 

it  was  during  the  festivals  held  at  Hampton  Court, 
whither  she  accompanied  the  Princesses,  that  hei 
conquest  was  completed  ;  and  Surrey  being  after- 
wards confined  at  Windsor,f  was  deprived  of  hei 
aociety. 

Bright  is  her  hue,  and  Geraldineshe  hight; 
Hampton  me  taught  to  wish  her  first  for  mine, 
Windsor,  alas !  doth  chase  me  from  her  sight. 

*  Natural  brother  of  the  princesses;  he  was  the  son  of  Henry 
VTII.  by  Lady  Talbot. 
t  He  was  imprisoned  for  eating  meat  in  Lent. 


l48  THE    FAIR    GERALDINE. 

Hampton  Court  was  the  scene  of  their  frequent 
interviews.  Surrey  mentions  a  certain  recessed  or 
bow  window,  in  which,  retired  apart  from  .the  gay 
throng  around  them,  they  held  "  converse  sweet." 
Here  she  gave  him,  as  it  seems,  some  encourage- 
ment ;  too  proud  of  such  a  distinguished  suitor  to 
let  him  escape.  He  in  the  same  moment  confesses 
himself  a  very  slave,  and  betrays  an  indignant  con- 
sciousness of  the  arts  by  which  she  keeps  him  en- 
tangled in  her  chain. 

In  silence  tho'  I  keep  to  such  secrets  myself, 

Yet  do  I  see  how  she  sometimes  doth  yield  a  lojk  by 

stealth ; 

As  tho'  it  seemed,  I  wis, — "  I  will  not  lose  thee  so !  " 
When  in  her  heart  so  sweet  a  thought  did  never  truly 

grow. 

He  accuses  her  expressly  of  a  love  of  general 
admiration,  and  of  giving  her  countenance  and 
favor  to  unworthy  rivals.  In  "  The  Warning  to  a 
Lover  how  he  is  abused  by  his  Love,"  he  thus  ad- 
dressed himself  as  the  deceived  lover : — 

Where  thou  hast  loved  so  long,  with  heart  and  all  thj 

power, 

I  see  thee  fed  with  feigned  words,  &c. 
[  see  her  pleasant  cheer  in  chiefest  of  thy  suit: 
When  thou  art  gone,  I  see  him  come  who  gathers  up  tho 

fruit; 

And  eke  in  thy  respect,  I  see  the  base  degree 
Of  him  to  whom  she  gives  the  heart,  that  promised  w»i 

to  thee!* 

*  Lady  Frances  Vere 


THE    FAIR    GERALDIVE.  14& 

The  fair  Geraldine  must  have  been  a  practised 
coquette  to  have  sat  for  a  picture  so  finished  and 
so  strongly  marked :  yet  before  we  blame  her  for 
this  disdainful  trifling,  it  should  be  remembered 
that  Lord  Surrey,  at  the  time  he  was  wooing  her 
with  "  musicke  vows,"  was  either  married  or  con- 
tracted to  another,* — a  circumstance  quite  in  keep« 
ing  with  the  fashionable  system  of  Platonic  gal- 
lantry introduced  from  Italy — 

0  Plato!  Plato!  you  have  been  the  cause,  &c. 

T  forbear  to  continue  the  apostrophe. 

According  to  the  old  tradition,  repeated  by  all 
Surrey's  biographers,  he  visited  on  his  travels  the 
famous  necromancer  Cornelius  Agrippa,  who  in  a 
magic  mirror  revealed  to  him  the  fair  figure  of  his 
Geraldine,  lying  dishevelled  on  a  couch,  and,  by 
the  light  of  a  taper,  reading  one  of  his  tenderest 
Eonnets. 

Fair  all  the  pageant,  but  how  passing  fair 

The  slender  form  that  lay  on  couch  of  Ind! 
O'er  her  white  bosom  strayed  her  hazel  hair, 

Pale  her  dear  cheek,  as  if  for  love  she  pined. 
All  in  her  night-robe  loose,  she  lay  reclined, 

And  pensive  read  from  tablet  eburnine, 
Some  strain  that  seemed  her  inmost  soul  to  find, — 

That  favored  strain  was  Surrey's  raptured  line, 
That  fair  and  lovely  form,  the  Lady  GeraldineJt 

*  Surrey's  Works :  Nott's  Edit.  4to. 
t  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel 


150  THE    FAIR    GERALDLNE. 

This  beautiful  incident  is  too  celebrated,  too  toucV- 
ing,  not  to  be  one  of  the  articles  of  our  poetical 
faith.  It  was  believed  by  Surrey's  contemporaries, 
and  in  the  age  immediately  following  was  gravely 
related  by  a  grave  historian.  It  shows  at  least  the 
celebrity  which  his  poetry,  unequalled  at  that  time, 
had  given  to  his  love,  and  the  object  of  it.  In  fact 
when  divested  of  the  antique  spelling,  which,  at 
the  first  glance,  revolts  by  the  impression  it  gives 
of  difficulty  and  obscurity,  some  of  the  lyrics  of 
Surrey  have  not  since  been  surpassed  either  in 
elegance  of  sentiment,  or  flowing  grace  of  ex 
pression  : — for  example — 

A  Praise  of  his  Love,  loherein  he  reproveih  them  tfiat  compare 
their  Ladies  with  his. 

Give  place  ye  lovers  here  before, 

That  spent  your  bostes  and  braggs  in  vain, 

My  ladye's  beauty  passeth  more 

The  best  of  yours,  I  dare  well  sayne, 

Then  doth  the  sun  the  candle  light, 

Or  brightest  day  the  darkest  night. 

And  thereto  hath  a  truth  as  just, 
As  had  Penelope  the  fair: 
For  what  she  sayeth  you  may  trust, 
As  it  by  writing  sealed  were ; 
And  virtues  hath  she  many  moe, 
Than  I  with  pen  have  skill  to  show. 

The  following  sonnet  is  rather  a  specimen  of 
versification  than  of  sentiment:  the  subject  if 
borrowed  from  Petrarch. 


THE    FAIR    GERALDINE.  .151 

A  COMPLAINT  BY  NIGHT,  OF  A  LOVER  NOT   BELOV  fiD. 

Alas !  so  all  things  now  do  hold  their  peace, 

Heaven  and  earth  disturbed  in  no  thing; 
The  beasts,  the  air,  the  birds  their  song  do  cease, 

And  the  night's  car  the  stars  about  doth  bring: 
Calm  is  the  sea,  the  waves  work  less  and  less : 

So  am  not  I,  whom  love,  alas !  doth  wring 
Bringing  before  my  face  the  great  increase 

Of  my  desires,  whereas  I  weep  and  sing, 
In  joy  and  woe,  as  in  a  doubtful  case. 

For  my  sweet  thoughts,  some  time  do  pleasure  bring? 
But  by  and  bye,  the  cause  of  my  disease, 

Gives  me  a  pang  that  inwardly  doth  sting, 
When  that  I  think,  what  grief  it  is  again 

To  live,  and  lack  the  thing  should  rid  my  pain. 

Geraldine  was  so  beautiful  as  to  authorize  the 
raptures  of  her  poetical  lover.  Even  in  her  later 
years,  when,  as  Countess  of  Lincoln,  she  attended 
on  Queen  Elizabeth,  she  retained  so  much  of  her 
excelling  loveliness,  that  the  adoration  paid  to  her 
in  youth,  was  not  wondered  at ;  and  her  celebrity 
as  Surrey's  early  love,  is  alluded  to  by  contemporary 
writers.*  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  she  was  an 
accomplished  woman :  the  learned  education  the 
Princesses  received  at  Hunsdon,  (in  the  advantages 
of  which  she  participated,)  is  well  known  Her 
father,  Lord  Kildare,  was  a  man  of  vigorous  intel- 
lect and  uncommon  attainments  for  the  age  in 
which  he  lived.  He  was  the  eighth  Earl  of  his 
noble  family,  and  being  engaged  in  the  disturbances 
of  Ireland,  'then  a  scene  of  eternal  dissension  and 
«  Queen  Elizabeth's  Progresses,  vol.  i. 


152  THE    FAIK    GERALDINE. 

bloodshed  between  the  native  princes  and  the  lord? 
of  the  English  pale,  he  fell  under  the  displeasure 
of  Henry  the  Eighth :  his  eldest  son,  and  his  five 
brothers,  who  had  been  seized  as  hostages,  were 
executed  on  the  same  day  at  Tyburn,  and  the 
"  stout  old  Earl,"  as  he  is  called  in  history,  died 
broken-hearted  in  the  Tower.  The  mother  of 
Geraldine  is  rendered  interesting  to  us  by  a  little 
family  trait,  related  by  one  of  our  old  Chroniclers.* 
Lord  Kildare,  he  tells  us,  "  was  so  well  affected  to 
his  wife,  as  he  would  not  at  anie  time  buy  a  suite 
of  apparel  for  himself,  but  he  would  suite  her  with 
the  same  stuffe ;  the  which  gentlenesse  she  recom- 
pensed with  equal  kindnesse  ;  for  after  that  he,  the 
said  Earle,  deceased  in  the  Tower,  she  did  not 
onley  live  a  chaste  and  honorable  widow,  but  also 
nightly,  before  she  went  to  bed,  she  would  resort 
to  his  picture,  and  there,  with  a  solemn  conge,  she 
would  bid  her  Lorde  good  nighte." 

This  Countess  of  Kildare  was  Lady  Elizabeth 
Grey,  grand-daughter  of  that  famous  Lady  Eliza- 
beth Grey,  whose  virtue  made  her  the  queen  of 
Edward  the  Fourth.  Thus  the  fair  Geraldine  was 
cousin  to  the  young  princes  who  were  smothered 
in  the  Tower,  and  may  truly  be  said  to  have  been 
of  "  Prince's  blood." 

It  must  be  admitted  that  the  general  tone  of 
Surrey's  poems  does  not  give  us  a  favorable  idea 
of  the  fair  Geraldine's  manners  and  character 
$he  was  variable,  coquettish,  and  fond  of  admira- 

*  Hollinshed. 


THE    FAIR    GEBALDINE.  153 

tion  ; — on  this  point  I  have  offered  some  apology 
for  her.  She  is  accused  also  of  marrying  twice, 
from  mercenary  motives,  and  thus  forfeiting  the 
attachment  of  her  noble  and  poetical  lover.*  This 
is  unfair,  I  think  ;  there  is  no  proof  that  Geraldine 
married  solely  from  mercenary  motives.  Surrey 
was  himself  married,  and  both  the  men  to  whom 
she  was  successively  united,f  were  eminent  in 
their  day  for  high  personal  qualities,  though  in  com- 
parison with  Surrey,  they  have  been  reduced  to  hide 
their  diminished  heads  in  peerages  and  genealogies. 

The  Earl  of  Surrey  was  beheaded  in  1547. 
The  fair  Geraldine  was  living  forty  years  after- 
wards: she  survived  for  a  short  time  her  second 
husband,  Lord  Lincoln  ;  and  with  him  lies  buried 
under  a  sumptuous  tomb  at  Windsor :  she  left  nc 
descendants.  Her  youngest  brother,  Edward  Fitz- 
gerald, was  the  lineal  ancestor  of  the  present 
Duke  of  Leinster. 

The  only  original  portrait  of  the  fair  Geraldine, 
now  extant,  is  in  the  gallery  of  the  Duke  of 
Bedford,  at  Woburn ;  and  I  am  told  that  it  ia 
sufficiently  beautiful  to  justify  Surrey's  admira- 
tion.J 

*  See  Nott's  edition  of  Surrey's  Works. 

t  She  was  the  second  wife  of  Sir  Anthony  Browne,  and  the 
third  wife  of  the  Earl  of  Lincoln,  ancestor  to  the  Duke  of  New- 
<?astie. 

t  Those  who  are  curious  about  historic  proofs,  may  consult 
Anecdotes  of  the  family  of  Howard,  Memoirs  and  Works  of 
Eeury  Howard,  Earl  of  Surrey,  edited  by  Dr.  Nott,  Park's  Royal 
and  Noble  Authors,  and  Collins's  Peerage,  by  Brydges. 


154  GINEVRA 

CHAPTER  XIH. 

GINEVRA,  AND   ALESSANDRA  STROZZI. 

WHILE  the  sagacity  of  Horace  Walpole  was 
tracking  the  identity  of  the  fair  Geraldine  through 
the  mazes  of  poetry  and  probability, — through 
parchments,  through  peerages,  through  papers,  and 
through  patents,  he  must  now  and  then  have  been 
annoyed  by  the  provoking  discretion  of  her  chival- 
rous adorer,  which  had  led  him  such  a  chase.  But 
of  all  the  discreet  lovers  that  ever  baffled  commen- 
tators or  biographers,  commend  me  to  Ariosto! 
though  one  of  the  last  from  whom  discretion  might 
have  been  expected  on  such  a  subject.  He  is 
known  to  have  been  particularly  susceptible  to  the 
power  of  beauty ;  passionate  in  his  attachments ; 
and  though  pensive  and  abstracted  in  his  general 
habits,  almost  irresistibly  captivating  in  his  inter- 
course with  women.  Yet  such  was  his  fine  chival- 
rous feeling  for  the  honor  of  those  who,  won  by  his 
rare  qualities,  yielded  it  to  his  keeping — "  such  his 
marvellous  secrecy  and  modesty,"  say  his  Italian 
biographers,  that  although  the  public  gaze  was 
fixed  upon  him  in  his  lifetime,  and  although,  since 
his  death,  the  minutest  circumstances  relative  to 
him  have  been  subjects  of  as  much  curiosity  and 
research  in  Italy,  as  Shakspeare  among  us  ;  yet  a 
few  scattered  notices  are  all  that  can  be  brought 
together  to  illustrate  his  charming  lyrics. 


155 


Phis  mystery  was  not  in  Ar.osto  the  effect  of 
chance  or  affectation  ;  it  arose  from  a  principle  of 
Conduct  faithfully  adhered  to  from  youth  to  age  ; 
in  behalf  of  which,  and  the  many  beautiful  passages 
expressive  of  devotion  and  reverential  tenderness 
towards  our  sex,  .scattered  through  his  great  poem, 
we  will  endeavour,  (though  at  some  little  sacrifice 
of  the  pride  and  delicacy  of  women,)  to  pardon 
him,  for  having  treated  us  most  wickedly,  on  sun- 
dry other  occasions.  As  an  emblem  of  the  reserve 
he  had  imposed  on  himself,  a  little  bronze  Cupid, 
with  his  finger  on  his  lip,  in  token  of  silence,  orna- 
mented his  inkstand,  which  is  still  preserved  at 
Ferrara. 

Of  Ariosto's  amatory  poems,  so  full  of  spirit, 
grace,  and  a  sort  of  earnest  triumphant  tenderness, 
it  is  impossible  to  doubt  that  the  objects  were  real. 
The  earliest  of  his  serious  attachments,  was  to  a 
youhg  girl  of  the  Florentine  family  of  the  Lapi, 
but  residing  at  Mantua,  or  in  its  vicinity.  Her 
name  was  Ginevra,  —  a  name  he  has  tenderly  com- 
memorated in  the  Orlando  Furioso,  by  giving  it  to 
one  of  his  most  charming  and  interesting  heroines, 
—  Ginevra  di  Scozia.  He  has  also,  after  Pe- 
trarch's fashion,  played  upon  this  name  in  one  or 
two  of  his  sonnets  ;  Ginevra  signifying  a  juniper- 
tree  : 

Non  voglio  (e  Febo  e  Bacco  mi  perdoni) 
Che  lor  frondi  mi  mostrino  poeta, 
Ma  che  un  Ginevro  sia  che  mi  coroni! 

MI  wish  not,  (may  Bacchus  and  Phoabus  pardon  me!) 


1 56  GINEVRA. 

either  the  laurel  or  the  ivy  to  crown  my  brows ;  let  inj 
wreath  be  rather  of  the  thorny  juniper !  " 

His  love  for  Ginevra,  (which  was  fondly  re* 
turned,)  began  in  very  early  youth ;  their  first  in 
terview  occurred  at  a  Festa  di  Ballo, — a  fete-cham- 
petre,  where  Ginevra  excelled  all  her  young  com- 
panions in  the  dance,  as  much  as  she  surpassed 
them  in  her  blooming  beauty.  He  alludes  to  stolen 
interviews,  in  a  grove  of  laurels,  and  on  the  banks 
of  the  Mincio :  and  on  the  whole,  confesses  that  he 
had  no  reason  to  complain  of  cruelty  from  the  fair 
Ginevra.*  This  attachment  lasted  long  ;  for,  four 
years  after  their  first  meeting,  Ariosto  addresses 
her  in  a  most  impassioned  strain,  and  vows  that  sho 
was  then  "  dearer  to  him  than  his  own  soul,  and 
fairer  than  ever  in  his  eyes."  She  seems  to  have 
left  that  permanent  impr^eion  on  his  memory  and 
fancy,  that  shade  of  tender  regret  with  which  a 
man  of  strong  sensibility  and  ardent  imagination 
always  recurs  to  the  first  love  of  his  youth,  even 
when  the  passion  itself  is  past.  He  says  himself, 
when  revisiting  Mantua  many  years  afterwards, 
that  the  scene  revived  all  his  former  tenderness — 

Quel  foco  ch'  io  pensai  che  fosse  estinto, 
Dal  tempo,  dagli  affanni,  ed  il  star  lunge 
Signor  pur  arde. 

I  cannot  discover  what  became  of  Ginevra  ulti- 


•  Non  ebbe  unqua  pastore 


Di  me  piu  lieto,  o  pia  felice  amore! 
8ee  the  canzone  to  Ginevra,  quoted  by  Baruffaldi.    Vita,  p.  148 


ALESSANDRA    STROZZI.  157 

mately :  her  fate  was  a  common  one  :  she  was  loved 
by  a  celebrated  man,  was  forsaken,  and  in  exchange 
for  happiness  and  for  love,  she  has  enjoyed  for  some 
time  a  shadowy  renown.  Her  name  was  usually 
connected  with  that  of  Ariosto,  till  the  researches 
of  late  biographers  discovered  the  object  of  that 
more  celebrated,  more  serious,  and  more  lasting 
passion  which  inspired  Ariosto's  finest  lyrics,  which 
was  subsequently  sealed  by  a  private  marriage, 
and  ended  only  with  the  poet's  life.  In  this  in- 
stance, the  modesty  of  the  lady  and  the  discretion 
of  Ariosto  have  proved  in  vain,  for  the  name  of 
Alessandra  Strozzi  is  now  so  inseparably  linked 
with  that  of  her  poet,  that  Beatrice  is  not  more 
identified  with  Dante,  nor  Laura  with  Petrarch ; 
though  their  name  be  more  popular,  and  their 
fame  more  widely  spread. 

Minor  di  grido,  ma  del  vanto  altera, 
(E  cio  le  basta)  che  suo  saggio  amante 
Fu  '1  grande  che  canto  1'armi  e  gli  amori — 
Vedi  Alexandra!* 

Alessandra  Strozzi  was  the  daughter  of  Filippo 
Benucci,  and  the  widow  of  Tito  Strozzi,  a  noble 
Florentine  and  famous  Latin  poet.  At  the  period 
of  her  first  acquaintance  with  Ariosto,  she  must 
have,  been  about  six-and-twenty,  and  a  beautiful 
woman,  on  a  very  magnificent  scale.  Though  I 
cannot  find  that  she  was  distinguished  for  talents, 
or  any  particular  taste  for  literature,  she  seems  to 

•Monti.    Poesie  varie,  p   88. 


(58  ALESSANDRA    STROZZI. 

have  possessed  higher  and  more  lovable  qualities, 
which  won  Ariosto's  admiration  and  secured  his 
respect  to  the  last. 

It  was  on  his  return  from  Rome  in  1515,  that 
Ariosto  visited  Florence,  intending  merely  to  wit' 
ness  the  grand  festival  which  was  then  celebrated 
in  honor  of  St.  John  the  Baptist,  and  lasted  sev- 
eral days.  With  what  animation,  what  graphic 
power,  he  has  described  in  one  of  his  canzoni,  the 
scene  and  occasion  in  which  he  first  beheld  his  mis- 
tress !  The  magnificence  of  Florence  left,  he  says, 
few  traces  on  his  memory :  he  could  only  recollect 
that  in  all  that  fair  city,  he  saw  nothing  so  fair  as 
herself. 

Sol  mi  resta  immortale 
Memoria,  ch'  io  non  vidi  in  tutta  quella 
Bella  citta  di  voi,  cosa  piu  bella. 

He  had  arrived  just  in  time  to  be  present  at  a 
fete,  to  which  both  were  invited,  and  which  Ales- 
sandra,  notwithstanding  her  recent  widowhood, 
condescended  to  adorn  with  her  presence,  "da 
preghi  vinta  " — conquered  by  the  entreaties  of  her 
friends.  The  whole  scene  is  set  forth  like  some  of 
the  living  and  moving  pictures  which  glow  before 
us  in  the  Orlando. 

Porte,  finestra,  vie,  templi,  teatri, 

Vidi  pieni  di  Donne, 

A  giochi,  a  pompe,  sacrifici  intenti. 

The  portrait  of  Alessandra  in  her  festal  attire, 


ALESSANDRA   STROZZI.  159 

and  all  her  matronly  loveliness,  looks  forth,  as  it 
were,  from  this  gorgeous  frame,  like  one  of  Titian's 
breathing,  full-blown  beauties.  Her  dress  is  mi- 
nutely described :  it  was  black,  embroidered  over 
with  wreaths  of  vine-leaves  and  bunches  of  grapes, 
in  purple  and  gold ;  her  fair  luxuriant  hair,  gath- 
ered in  a  net  behind  and  parted  in  front,  fell  down 
on  either  side  of  her  face,  in  long  curls  which 
touched  her  shoulders. 

In  aurei  nodi,  il  biondo  e  spesso  crine 
In  rara  e  sottil  rete,  avea  raccolto ; 

Soave  ombra  di  drieto 
Rendea  al  collo,  e  dinanzi  alle  confine 

Delle  guance  divine; 
E  discendea  fin  a  1'  avorio  Bianco 

Del  destro  omero,  e  manco; 
Con  queste  reti,  insidiosi  amori 

Preser  quel  giorno,  piu  de  mille  cori! 

"  In  golden  braids,  her  fair 

And  richly  flowing  hair 

Was  gather' d  in  a  subtle  net  behind, — 

(A  subtle  net  and  rare!) 

And  cast  sweet  shadows  there 

Over  her  neck,  whilst  parted  ringlets,  twined 

In  beauty,  from  her  forehead  fell  away, 

And  hung  adown  her  cheek  where  roses  lay, 

Touching  the  ivory  pale,  (how  pale  and  white  ) 

Of  both  her  rounded  shoulders,  left  and  right. 

0  crafty  Loves !  no  more  ye  need  your  darts ; 

For  well  ye  know,  how  many  thousand  hearts 

(Willing  captives  on  that  day,) 

In  those  golden  meshes  lay!"* 

*  Translated  by  a  friend. 


160  ALESSANDRA    STROZZI. 

On  her  brow,  just  where  her  hair  is  parted,  she 
wears  a  sprig  of  laurel,  wondrously  wrought  in 
gems  of  gold  ; 

Quel  gemmato 
Allo,  tra  la  serena  fronte  e  1'  calle  assunto. 

After  a  rapturous,  but  general  description  of  the 
lady's  surpassing  beauty,  this  animated  and  admir- 
able canzone  concludes  with  the  fine  comparison 
of  himself  to  the  wild  falcon,  tamed  at  length  to  a 
master's  hand  and  voice  : — 

La  libertade  apprezza, 

Fin  che  perduta  ancor  non  1'  ha  il  falcone; 

Preso  die  sia,  depone 

Del  gire  errando  si  1'  antica  voglia, 

Che  sempre  che  si  scioglia, 

Al  suo  Signer  a  render  con  veloci 

Ali  s'  andra,  dove  udira  le  voci ! 

Ariosto,  thus  enamored,  forgot  the  flight  of  time ; 
instead  of  remaining  at  Florence  a  few  days,  his 
stay  was  prolonged  to  six  months ;  and  as  he  resided 
in  the  house  of  his  friend  Vespucci,  who  was  the 
brother-in-law  of  Alessandra,  he  had  daily  oppor- 
tunities of  seeing  her,  without  in  any  way  compro- 
mising her  matronly  dignity.  On  a  certain  occasion 
he  finds  her  employed  at  her  embroidery.  She  is 
working  a  robe,  with  wreaths  of  lilies  and  ama- 
ranths :  these  emblems  of  purity  and  love  suggest, 
of  course,  the  obvious  compliments,  but  in  a  spirit 
that  places  the  whole  scene  before  us:  Alessandra, 
gracefully  bending  at  her  embroidery  frame,  and 


ALdSSANDRA    STROZZI.  161 

listening,  with  veiled  lids,  and  suspended  needle,  to 
the  tender  homage  of  Ariosto,  who  repeats,  as  he 
hangs  over  her, — 

Non  senza  causa  il  giglio  e  1'  amaranto, 
L'  uno  di  fede,  e  1'  altro  fior  d'  amore,  &c. 

Even  the  pattern  from  which  she  is  working,  the 
silk,  the  gold,  the  lawn,  made  happy  by  her  touch, 
are  sanctified,  are  envied, — 

Avventuroso  man !  beato  ingegno ! 

Beata  seta !  beatissimo  oro ! 

Ben  nato  lino!  inclito  bel  lavoro, 

Da  chi  vuol  la  mia  dea  prender  disegno, 

Per  far  a  vostro  esempio  un  vestir  degno, 

Che  copra  avorio,  e  perle  ed  un  teroso  !* 

And  he  adds,  "  Ah,  that  she  would  rather  take 
pattern  after  me,  and  imitate  the  constant  love  I 
bear  her ! " 

Alessandra  must  have  excelled  in  needle-work, 
for  we  find  frequent  mention  of  her  favorite  occu- 
pation ;  and  it  is  even  alluded  to  in  the  Orlando, 
where,  describing  the  wound  of  Zerbino,  Ariostc 
uses  a  comparison  rather  too  fanciful  for  the  occa- 

ROD 

Cosl  talora  un  bel  purpureo  nastro 
Ho  veduto  patir  tela  d'  argento, 
Da  quel  bianca  man  piu  ch'  alabastro 
Da  cui  partire  il  cor  spesso  mi  sento. 

And  so,  I  sometimes  have  been  wont  to  view 
A  hand  more  white  than  alabaster,  part 

*  Sonnet  27 
11 


J62  ALKSSANDKA    STKOZZI. 

The  silver  cloth,  with  ribbons  red  of  hub, 
A  hand  I  often  feel  divide  my  heart.* 

Among  the  personal  charms  of  Alessandra,  the 
most  striking  was  the  beauty  and  luxuriance  of  hei 
hair.  In  the  days  of  Ariosto,  fair  hair,  with  a 
golden  tinge,  was  so  much  admired  that  it  became 
a  fashion  ;  we  are  even  informed  that  the  Venetian 
women  had  invented  a  dye,  or  extract,  by  which 
they  discharged  the  natural  color  of  their  tresses 
and  gave  them  this  admired  hue.  Almost  all 
Titian's  and  Giorgione's  beauties  have  fair  hair  ; 
the  "  richissima  capellatura  bionda  "  of  Alessandra, 
was  a  principal  charm  in  the  eyes  of  her  lover,  but 
it  was  one  she  was  destined  to  lose  prematurely ; 
during  a  dangerous  illness,  some  rash  and  luckless 
physician  ordered  all  her  beautiful  tresses  to  be  cut 
off.  The  remedy,  it  seems,  was  equally  unneces- 
sary and  unfortunate ;  but  here  was  a  fine  theme 
for  an  indignant  lover !  and  Ariosto  has,  accord- 
ingly, lavished  on  it  some  of  his  most  graceful  and 
poetical  ideas.  Of  the  three  elegant  sonnets  f  in 
which  he  has  commemorated  the  incident,  it  is 
difficult  to  decide  which  is  the  finest — the  last,  per- 
haps, is  the  most  spirited :  the  poet  bursts  at  once 
into  his  subject,  as  in  a  transport  of  grief  and 
rage. 

"  When  I  think,  as  I  do,  a  thousand,  thousand 
times  a-day,  upon  those  golden  tresses,  which 
neither  wisdom  nor  necessity,  but  hasty  folly,  tore, 

*  Stewart  Hose's  translation.        t  The  26tb,  27th,  and  28th 


ALESSANDfcA   STROZZI.  168 

fclas !  from  that  fair  head,  I  am  enraged,— my  cheek 
burns  with  anger,- — even  tears  gush  forth,  bathing 
my  face  and  bosom ; — I  could  die  to  be  revenged 
on  the  impious  stupidity  of  that  rash  hand  !  O 
Love,  if  such  wrong  goes  unpunished,  thine  be  the 
reproach !  Eemember  how  Bacchus  avenged  on 
the  Thracian  King,*  his  clusters  torn  from  his 
sacred  vines :  wilt  thou,  who  art  greater  far  than 
he.  do  less  ?  Wilt  thou  suffer  the  loveliest  and 
dearest  of  thy  possessions  to  be  audaciously  rav- 
ished, and  yet  bear  it  in  silence  ?  "f 

This  is  powerful  enough  to  be  in  downright 
earnest :  and  unsoftened  by  the  flowing  harmony 
of  the  verse  and  rhyme,  appears  even  harsh,  both 
in  sentiment  and  expression :  but  the  poetry  and 
spirit  being  inherent,  have  not,  I  trust,  quite 
escaped  in  the  transfusion.  When  Ariosto,  after  a 
long  absence,  revisits  the  scene  in  which  he  first 
beheld  the  lady  of  his  thoughts,  he  addresses  those 
"  marble  halls,  and  lofty  and  stately  roofs, 

"  Marmoree  logge,  alti  e  superbi  tetti," 

in  a  strain  which  leaves  the  issue  of  his  suit  some- 
thing less  than  doubtful : — 

"  Well  do  ye  remember  ye  scenes,  when  I  left 
ye  a  captive  sick  at  heart,  and  pierced  with  Love's 
sweet  pain :  but  ye  know  not  perhaps  how  sweetly 
I  died,  and  was  restored  again  to  life :  how  my 
gentlest  Lady,  seeing  that  my  soul  had  forsaken 

*  Lycurgua,  King  of  Thrace.  t  iriceto,  Rime. 


*64  ALESSANDRA    STROZZI. 

toe,  sent  me  hers  in   return   to  dwell   with  me 
forever ! " 

"  Ben  vi  sovvien,  che  di  qui  andai  captive, 
Trafitto  il  cor !  ma  non  sapete  forse 
Com'  io  morissi,  e  poi  tornassi  in  vita. 

E  che  madonna,  tosto  che  s'  accorse 

Esser  1'  anima  in  lei  da  me  fuggita, 

La  sua  mi  diede,  e  ch'  or  con  questa  vivo!" 

The  exact  date  of  Ariosto's  marriage  cannot  be 
ascertained,  but  the  marriage  itself  is  proved 
beyond  a  doubt  :*  it  must  have  taken  place  about 
1522.  The  reasons  which  induced  Ariosto  to  in- 
volve in  doubt  and  mystery  his  union  with  this 
admirable  woman,  can  only  be  conjectured,!  their 
intercourse  was  so  carefully  concealed,  and  the 
discretion  and  modesty  of  Alessandra  so  remark- 
able, that  no  suspicion  of  the  ties  which  bound 
them  to  each  other,  existed  during  the  life  of  thu 
poet;  nor  did  the  slightest  imputation  ever  sully 
the  fair  fame  of  her  he  loved. 

It  were  endless  to  point  out  the  various  beauties 
of  Ariosto's  lyrics, — beauties,  which  as  they  spring 
from  feeling  are  felt.  We  have  few  sonnets  in  a 
dolorous  strain,  few  complaints  of  cruelty ;  and 
even  these  seem  inspired,  not  by  the  habitual  cold- 


*The  proofs  may  be  consulted  in  Baruffaldi,  "Vita  di  M. 
Ludovico  Ariosto,"  published  in  1807;  and  also  in  Frizzi,  "  Me- 
at »rie  della  Famiglia  Ariosto." 

t  Barutfaldi  gives  some  family  reasons,  but  they  are  far  trom 
being  satisfactory.— VITA,  in  p.  159. 


ALESSANDRA   STROZZI.  16i 

ness  of  Alessandra,  but  by  some  occasional  repulses 
which  he  confesses  to  have  deserved. 

Per  poco  consiglio,  e  troppo  ardire. 

But  we  have  in  their  place,  all  the  glow  of  sensi- 
bility, the  sparkling  of  hope,  the  grateful  rapture  of 
returned  affection,  and  that  power  of  imagery,  by 
which,  with  one  vivid  stroke,  he  turns  his  emotions 
into  pictures :  these  predominate  throughout.  As 
an  instance  of  the  latter,  there  is  the  apostrophe  to 
Hope,  "  now  bounding  and  leaping  along,  now 
creeping  with  coward  steps  and  slow : " 

0  speranza !  che  ancor  dietro  si  mena 
Quando  a  gran  salti,  e  quando  a  passi  lenti ! 

In  one  of  his  madrigals,  he  says,  with  an  elegance 
which  is  perhaps  a  little  quaint,  "  my  wishes  soar  so 
high,  that  my  hopes  shrink  back,  and  dare  not 
follow  them."  In  the  same  spirit,  when  he  is  blest 
with  the  presence  of  his  love,  grief  is  not  only  ban- 
ished, but,  "  flies  with  the  rapidity  of  a  falcon  before 
the  wind," 

Vola,  com'  un  falcone  che  ha  seeo  il  vento ! 

Merely  to  compare  his  mistress  to  a  i-ose,  would 
have  been  commonplace.  She  is  a  rose  "  unfold 
ing  her  paradise  of  leaves  " — a  charming  expres- 
sion, which  has  been  adopted  I  think,  by  one  of 
our  living  poets.  Mingled  with  the  most  rapturous 
praise  of  Alessandra's  triumphant  beauty,  we  have 
lonstantly  the  most  delightful  impression  of  her 


166  ALESSANDRA   STROZZI. 

tenderness,  her  frank  and  courteous  bearing,  aim 
the  gladness  which  her  presence  diffuses  through 
his  heart,  which,  after  the  sentimental  lamentations 
of  former  poets,  are-  really  a  relief. 

I  can  understand  the  self-congratulation,  the 
secret  enjoyment  with  which  Ariosto  dwelt  on  the 
praises  of  Alessandra,  celebrated  her  charms,  and 
exulted  in  her  love,  while  her  name  remained  an 
impenetrable  secret, 

Nor  pass'd  his  lips  in  holy  silence  seal'd ! 

But  when  once  he  had  introduced  her  into  the 
Orlando,  he  must  have  had  a  very  modest  idea  of 
his  own  future  renown,  not  to  have  anticipated  the 
consequences.  A  famous  passage  in  the  42d  canto, 
is  noAv  universally  admitted  to  be  a  description  of 
Alessandra.*  She  is  very  .strikingly  introduced, 
and  yet  with  the  usual  characteristic  mystery ;  so 
that  while  nothing  is  omitted  that  can  excite  inter- 
est and  curiosity,  every  means  are  taken  to  baffle 
and  disappoint  both.  Binaldo,  while  travelling  in 
Italy,  arrives  at  a  splendid  palace  on  the  banks  of 
the  Po.  It  is  minutely  described,  with  all  the 
prodigal  magnificence  of  the  Arabian  Nights,  and 
all  the  taste  of  an  architect;  and  among  other 
riches,  is  adorned  with  the  statues  of  the  most  cele- 
brated women  of  that  age,  all  of  whom  are  named 
at  length ;  but  among  them  stands  the  effigy  of  one 
80  preeminent  in  majesty,  and  beauty,  and  intellect, 

*  Ruscelli  Fabroni,  Baruflaldi,  and  the  late  poet  Monti,  are  all 
•greod  on  this  subject. 


ALESSANDRA    STROZZ1.  167 

that  though  she  is  partly  veiled,  and  habited  in 
modest  black,  (alluding  to  her  recent  widowhood,) 
though  she  wears  neither  jewels  nor  chains  of  gold, 
she  eclipses  all  the  beauties  around  her,  as  the 
evening  star  outshines  all  others. 

Che  sotto  puro  velo,  in  nera  gonna 
Senza  oro  e  gemme,  in  un  vestire  schietto, 
Fra  le  piu  adorne  non  parea  men  bella 
Che  sia  tra  1'altre  la  ciprigna  stella*  * 

At  her  side  stands  the  image  of  one,  who  in  humble 
strains  had  dared  to  celebrate  her  virtues  and  her 
beauty,  (meaning  himself.)  "  But,"  adds  the  poet 
modestly,  "  I  know  not  why  he  alone  should  be 
placed  there,  nor  what  he  had  done  to  be  so  hon- 
ored ;  of  all  the  rest,  the  names  were  sculptured 
beneath ;  but  of  these  two,  the  names  remained 
unknown  " — No,  not  so  !  for  those  whom  Love  and 
Fame  have  joined  together,  who  shall  henceforth 
sunder  ? 

The  Orlando  Furioso  was  completed  and  pub- 
lished shortly  after  Ariosto's  visit  to  Florence ;  and 
this  passage  must  have  been  written  apparently  not 
only  before  his  marriage  with  Alessandra,  but 
before  he  was  even  secure  of  her  affection  ;  per- 
haps he  read  it  aloud  to  her,  and  while  his  stolen 
looks  and  faltering  voice  betrayed  the  true  object 
of  this  most  beautiful  and  refined  homage,  she  must 
have  felt  the  delicacy  which  had  suppressed  her 
name.  In  such  a  moment,  how  little  could  she 
*  Orlando  Furioso,  c.  42,  st.  93. 


168  ALESSANDRA    STROZZI. 

have  heeded  or  thought  of  the  voice  of  future  fame, 
while  the  accents  of  her  lover  thrilled  through  her 
heart ! 

Alessandra  removed  from  Florence  to  Ferrara, 
about  1519,  and  inhabited  the  Casa  Strozzi,  in  the 
street  of  Santa  Maria  in  Vado.  The  residence  of 
Ariosto  was  in  the  Via  Mirasole,  at  some  distance. 
Both  houses  are  still  standing.  She  died  in  1552, 
having  survived  the  poet  about  nineteen  years  ; 
and  she  was  buried  in  the  church  of  San  Rocco  at 
Ferrara. 

She  bore  no  children  to  Ariosto ;  and  her  son, 
by  her  first  marriage,  (Count  Guido  Strozzi,)  died 
before  her. 

*  *  *  *  * 

Ariosto  left  two  sons,  whom  he  tenderly  loved 
and  had  educated  with  extreme  care.  The  eldest, 
Virginio,  was  the  son  of  a  beautiful  Contadinella, 
whose  name  was  Orsolina ;  the  mother  of  the 
youngest,  Giovanbattista,  was  also  a  girl  of  inferior 
rank ;  her  name  was  Maria.  Neither  are  once 
mentioned  or  alluded  to  by  Ariosto ;  but  the  mis- 
chievous industry  of  the  poef  s  commentators  has 
immortalized  their  names  and  their  frailty. 


SPENSER'S  ROSALIND.  16S 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

SPENSER'S  ROSALIND  AND  SPENSER'S   ELIZA- 
BETH. 

PASS  we  from  the  Ariosto  of  Italy,  to  Spenser, 
&ar  English  Ariosto ;  the  translation  is  natural  :— 
they  resemble  each  other  certainly,  but  with  a  dif- 
ference, and  this  difference  reigns  especially  in 
their  minor  poems. 

The  tender  heart  and  luxuriant  fancy  of  Spen- 
ser have  thrown  round  his  attachments  all  the 
strong  interest  of  reality,  and  all  the  charm  of 
romance  and  poetry  ;  and  since  we  know  that  the 
first  development  of  his  genius  was  owing  to  female 
influence,  his  Rosalind  ought  to  have  been  deified 
for  what  her  beauty  achieved,  had  she  possessed 
sufficient  soul  to  appreciate  the  lustre  of  her  con- 
quest. 

Immediately  on  leaving  college,  Spenser  retired 
to  the  north  of  England,  where  he  first  became 
enamored  of  the  fair  being  to  whom,  according  to 
the  fashion  of  the  day,  he  gave  the  fanciful  appel- 
lation of  Rosalind.  We.  are  told  that  the  letters 
which  form  this  word  being  "  well  ordered,"  (that 
is,  transposed,)  comprehend  her  real  name ;  but  it 
has  hitherto  escaped  the  penetration  of  his  biogra- 
phers. Two  of  his  friends  were  entrusted  with 
the  secret,  and  they,  with  a  discretion  more  to  oe 


]  70  SPENSER'S  ROSALIXD. 

regretted  than  blamed,  have  kept  it.  One  of  these, 
who  speaks  from  personal  knowledge,  tells  us,  in  a 
note  on  the  Eclogues,  that  she  was  the  daughter  of 
a  widow;  that  she  was  a  gentlewoman,  and  one 
"  that  for  her  rare  and  singular  gifts  of  person  and 
Viind,  Spenser  need  not  have  been  ashamed  to 
love."  We  can  believe  this  of  a  poet,  whose  deli- 
cate perception  of  female  worth  breathes  in  almost 
every  page  of  his  works ;  but  after  having,  as  he 
hoped,  made  some  progress  in  her  heart,  a  rival 
btept  in,  whom  Spenser  accuses  expressly  of  having 
supplanted  him  by  treacherous  arts ;  and  on  this 
obscure  and  nameless  wight,  Rosalind  bestowed 
the  hand  which  had  been  coveted, — the  charms 
which  had  been  sung  by  Spenser !  He  suffered 
long  and  deeply,  wounded  both  in  his  pride  and  in 
his  love :  but  her  beauty  and  virtue  had  made  a 
stronger  impression  than  her  cruelty ;  and  her 
lover,  with  a  generous  tenderness,  not  only  par- 
doned, but  found  excuses  for  her  disdain. 

"  I  have  often  heard 
Fair  Rosalind  of  divers  foully  blam'd, 

For  being  to  that  swain  too  cruel  hard; 
But  who  can  tell  what  cause  had  that  fair  maid 

To  use  him  so,  that  loved  her  so  well? 
Or  who  with  blame  can  justly  her  upbraid, 

For  loving  not;  for  who  can  love  compel? 
And  (sooth  to  say)  it  is  full  handy  thing 

Rashly  to  censure  creatures  so  divine; 
For  demi-gods  they  be ;  and  first  did  spring 

From  heaven,  though  graft  in  frailness  feminine."* 

*  Colin  Clout, 


SPENbER'S    ROSALIND.  171 

The  exquisite  sentiment  of  these  lines  is  worthy  of 
him  who  sung  of  "  Heavenly  Una  and  her  milk- 
white  lamb." 

To  the  memory  of  Rosalind, — to  the  long-felt 
influence  of  this  first  passion,  and  to  the  melancholy 
shade  which  his  early  disappointment  cast  over  a 
mind  naturally  cheerful,  we  owe  some  of  the  most 
tender  and  beautiful  passages  scattered  through  his 
later  poems  : — for  instance — the  bitter  sense  of  rec- 
ollected suffering,  seems  to  have  suggested  that  fine 
description  of  a  lover's  life,  which  may  almost  rank 
as  a  pendant  to  the  miseries  of  the  courtier,  so  well 
known  and  often  quoted. 

Full  little  know'st  them  that  hast  not  tried,  &c. 

• 

It  occurs  in  the  "  Hymn  to  Love." 

The  gnawing  envy,  the  heart-fretting  fear, 
The  vain  surmises,  the  distrustful  shows, 
The  false  reports  that  flying  tales  do  bear, 
The  doubts,  the  dangers,  the  delays,  the  woes, 
The  feigned  friends,  the  unassured  foes, 
With  thousands  more  than  any  tongue  can  teH— • 
Do  make  a  lover's  life,  a  wretch's  hell! 

And  again  in  the  Fairy  Queen  : — 

What  equal  torment  to  the  grief  of  mind, 
And  pining  anguish  hid  in  gentle  heart, 
That  inly  feeds  itself  with  thoughts  unkind, 
And  nourisheth  its  own  consuming  smart; 
Ani  will  to  nouo  its  malady  impart! 


1/2  SPENSER'S  ROSALIND. 

The  effects  produced  in  a  noble  and  gentle  spirit, 
by  virtuous  love  for  an  exalted  object,  are  not  less 
elegantly  described  in  another  stanza,  of  the  Hymn 
to  Love ;  and  must  have  been  read  with  rapture  in 
that  chivalrous  age.  The  last  line  is  particularly 
beautiful. 

Then  forth  he  casts  in  his  unquiet  thought, 
What  he  may  do  her  favour  to  ohtain; 
What  brave  exploit,  what  peril  hardly  wrought, 
What  puissant  conquest,  what  adventurous  pain, 
May  please  her  best,  and  grace  unto  him  gain ; 
He  dreads  no  danger,  nor  misfortune  fears, — 
His  faith,  his  fortune,  in  his  breast  he  bears ! 

And  in  what  a  fine  spirit  of  poetry,  as  well  as  feel- 
uig,  is  that  description  of  the  power  of  true  beauty, 
which  forms  part  of  his  second  Hymn  !  It  is  in- 
deed imitated  from  the  refined  Platonics  of  the 
Italian  school,  which  then  prevailed  in  the  court, 
the  camp,  the  grove,  and  is  a  little  diffuse  in 
style,  a  little  redundant ;  but  how  rich  in  poetry 
and  in  the  most  luxuriant  and  graceful  imagery  I 

How  vainly  then  do  idle  wits  invent, 

That  beauty  is  nought  else  but  mixture  made 

Of  colours  fair,  and  goodly  temperament 

Of  pure  complexions,  that  shall  quickly  fade 

And  pass  away  like  to  a  summer's  shade ; 

Or  that  it  is  but  comely  composition 

Of  parts  well  measured,  with  meet  disposition! 


Hath  white  and  red  in  it  such  wondrous  power, 
That  it  can  pierce  through  th'  eyes  into  the  heart, 


SPENSER'S  ROSALIND.  173t 

And  therein  stir  such  i-age  and  restless  stowre, 
As  nought  but  death  can  stint  his  dolor's  smart  ? 
Or  can  proportion  of  the  outward  part 
Move  such  affection  in  the  inward  mind, 
That  it  can  rob  both  sense,  and  reason  blind? 

Why  do  not  then  the  blossoms  of  the  field, 
Which  are  array' d  with  much  more  orient  hue, 
And  to  the  sense  most  dainty  odors  yield, 
Work  like  impressions  in  the  looker's  view? 
Or  why  do  not  fair  pictures  like  power  show, 
In  which  oft-times  we  Nature  see  of  Art 
Excell'd,  in  perfect  limning  every  part? 

But  ah !  believe  me,  there  is  more  than  so, 
That  works  such  wonders  in  the  minds  of  men, 
I,  that  have  often  prov'd,  too  well  it  know. 
And  who  so  list  the  like  essaies  to  ken, 
Shall  find  by  trial,  and  confess  it  then, 
That  beauty  is  not,  as  fond  men  misdeem, 
An  outward  show  of  things  that  only  seem. 

for  that  some  goodly  hue  of  white  and  red, 
With  which  the  cheeks  are  sprinkled,  shall  decay 
And  those  sweet  rosy  leaves,  so  fairly  spread 
Upon  the  lips,  shall  fade  and  fall  away, 
To  that  they  were,  even  to  corrupted  clay : — 
That  golden  wire,  those  sparkling  stars  so  bright 
Shall  turn  to  dust,  and  lose  their  goodly  light. 

But  that  fair  lamp,  from  whose  celestial  ray 
That  light  proceeds,  which  kindleth  lover's  fire, 
Shall  never  be  extinguished  nor  decay ; 
But,  when  the  vital  spirits  do  expire, 
Unto  her  native  planet  shall  retire ; 
For  it  is  heavenly  born  and  cannot  die 
Being  a  parcel  of  the  purest  sky ' 


174  ROSALIND   AND   ELIZABETH. 

At  a  late  period  of  Spenser's  life,  the  remem* 
brance  of  this  cruel  piece  of  excellence, — his 
Rosalind,  was  effaced  by  a  second  and  happier  love. 
His  sonnets  are  addressed  to  a  beautiful  Irish  girl, 
the  daughter  of  a  rich  merchant  of  Cork.  She  it 
was  who  healed  the  wound  inflicted  by  disdain  and 
levity,  and  taught  him  the  truth  he  has  expressed 
in  one  charming  line — 

Sweet  is  that  love  alone,  that  comes  with  willingness  I 

Her  name  was  Elizabeth,  and  her  family  (as  Spen- 
ser tells  us  himself)  obscure ;  but,  in  spite  of  her 
plebeian  origin,  the  lady  seems  to  have  been  a  very 
peremptory  and  Juno-like  beauty.  Spenser  con- 
tinually dwells  upon  her  pride  of  sex,  and  has 
placed  it  before  us  in  many  charming  turns  of 
thought,  now  deprecating  it  as  a  fault,  but  oftenei 
celebrating  it  as  a  virtue.  For  instance — 

Eudely  thou  wrongest  my  dear  heart's  desha, 
In  finding  fault  with  her  too  portly  pride: 
The  thing  which  I  do  most  in  her  admire, 
Is  of  the  world  unworthy  most  envied; 
For  in  those  lofty  looks  is  close  implied, 
Scorn  of  base  things,  disdain  of  foul  dishonor; 
Threatening  rash  eyes  which  gaze  on  her  so  wide, 
That  loosely  they  ne  dare  to  look  upon  her.  " 
Such  pride  is  praise ;  such  portliness  is  honour.* 

And  again,  in  the  thirteenth  sonnet,— 
*  Sonnet  5. 


ROSALIND   AND    ELIZABETH.  178 

In  that  proud  port,  which  her  so  goodly  graceth. 
Whiles  her  fair  face  she  rears  up  to  the  sky, 
And  to  the  ground,  her  eyelids  low  embaseth, 
Most  goodly  temperature  ye  may  descry ; 
Mild  humblesse,  mixt  with  awful  majesty! 

This  picture  of  the  deportment  erect  with  con- 
ueious  dignity,  and  the  eyelids  veiled  witli  feminine 
modesty,  is  very  beautiful.  We  have  the  figure 
of  his  Elizabeth  before  us  in  all  her  maidenly  dig- 
nity and  proud  humility.  The  next  is  a  softened 
repetition  of  the  same  characteristic  portrait : 

Was  it  the  work  of  Nature  or  of  Art, 
Which  temper' d  so  the  features  of  her  face, 
That  pride  and  meekness,  mixt  by  equal  part, 
Do  both  appear  to  adorn  her  beauty's  grace  ?  * 

He  rebukes  her  with  a  charming  mixture  of  re- 
proof and  flattery,  in  the  lines — 

Fair  Proud!  now  tell  me,  why  should  fair  be  proud?  &c. 

This  imperious  and  high-souled  beauty  at  length 
gives  some  sign  of  relenting ;  and  pursuing  the 
train  of  thought  and  feeling  through  the  latter  part 
of  the  collection,  we  can  trace  the  vicissitudes  of 
the  lady's  temper,  and  how  the  lover  spevl  in  his 
wooing.  First,  she  grants  a  smile,  and  it  is  hailed 
with  rapture — 

Sweet  smile !  the  daughter  of  the  Queen  of  Lova, 
Expressing  all  thy  mother's  powerful  art, 

*  Sonnet  21. 


178  ROSALIND    AND    ELIZABETH. 

With  which  she  wont  to  temper  angry  Jove, 
When  all  the  gods  he  threats  with  thundering  dart: 
Sweet  is  thy  virtue,  as  thyself  sweet  art! 
For,  when  on  me  thou  shinedst  late  in  sadness, 
A  melting  pleasance  ran  through  every  part, 
And  me  revived  with  heart-robbing  gladness !  * 

The  effect  of  a  first  relenting  and  affectionate 
BI  lile  from  a  being  of  this  character,  must,  in  truth» 
have  been  irresistible.  He  tells  us  how  lovely  sh« 
appeared  in  his  eyes, — how  surpassing  fair  : 

When  that  the  cloud  of  pride  which  oft  doth  dark 
Her  goodly  light,  with  smiles  she  drives  away ! 

He  finds  her  one  day  embroidering  in  silk  a  beo 
and  a  spider, 

Woven  all  about, 
With  woodbynd  flowers  and  fragrant  eglantine, 

and  he  playfully  compares  himself  to  a  spider,  and 
her  to  the  bee,  whom,  after  long  and  weary  watch- 
ing, he  was  at  length  caught  in  his  snare.  This 
pretty  incident  is  the  subject  of  the  71st  Sonnet. 
The  rapture  of  grateful  affection  is  more  eloquent 
in  the  Sonnet  beginning 

Joy  of  my  life !  full  oft  for  loving  you 

I  bless  my  lot,  that  was  so  lucky  placed,  &c. 

When  he  is  allowed  to  hope,  the  pride  which  had 
before  checked  and  chilled  him,  seems  to  change 

*  Sonnet  39. 


ROSALIND   AND    ELIZABETH.  177 

its  character.  He  feels  all  the  exultation  of  being 
beloved  of  one,  not  easily  gained,  and  "  assured 
unto  herself." 

Thrice  happy  she  that  is  so  well  assured 
Unto  herself,  and  settled  so  in  heart,  &c.* 

After  a  courtship  of  about  three  years,  he  sues 
for  the  possession  of  the  fair  hand  to  which  he  had 
so  long  aspired ;  promising  her  (and  not  vainly,) 
all  the  immortality  his  verse  could  bestow, — 

Even  this  verse,  vowed  to  eternity, 
Shall  be  of  her  immortal  monument, 
And  tell  her  praise  to  eternity ! 

The  fair  Elizabeth  at  length  confesses  hersell 
won  ;  but  expresses  some  fears  at  the  idea  of  re- 
linquishing; her  maiden  freedom.  His  reply  is, 
perhaps,  the  most  beautiful  of  all  the  Sonnets.  It 
has  all  the  tenderness,  elegance,  and  fancy,  which 
distinguish  Spenser  in  his  happiest  moments  of 
inspiration. 

The  doubt  which  ye  misdeem,  fair  love,  is  vain, 

That  fondly  fear  to  lose  your  liberty: 
When,  losing  one,  two  liberties  ye  gain, 

And  make  him  bound  that  bondage  erst  did  fly. 
Sweet  be  the  bands,  the  which  true  love  doth  tye 

Without  constraint,  or  dread  of  any  ill: 
The  gentle  bird  feels  no  captivity 

Within  her  cage;  but  sings,  and  feeds  her  fill: 


*  Sonnet  o». 
12 


178  .ROSALIND    AND   ELIZABETH. 

Thero  pride  dare  not  approach,  nor  discord  spill 

The  league  'twixt  them,  that  loyal  love  hath  bound 
•    But  simple  Truth,  and  mutual  Good-will, 

Seeks,  with  sweet  peace,  to  salve  each  othei's  wouad: 
There  Faith  doth  fearless  dwell  in  brazen  tower, 
And  spotless  Pleasure  builds  ter  sacred  cower.* 

The  Amoretti,  as  Spenser  has  fancifully  entitled 
his  Sonnets,  are  certainly  tinctured  with  a  good 
deal  of  the  verbiage  and  pedantry  of  the  times; 
but  I  think  I  have  shown  that  they  contain  passages 
of  earnest  feeling,  as  well  as  high  poetic  beauty 
Spenser  married  his  Elizabeth,  about  the  year 
1593,  and  he  has  crowned  his  amatory  effusion 
with  a  most  impassioned  and  triumphant  epitha- 
lamion  on  his  own  nuptials,  which  he  concludes 
with  a  prophecy,  that  it  shall  stand  a  perpetual 
monument  of  his  happiness,  and  thus  it  has  been. 
The  passage  in  which  he  describes  his  youthful 
bride,  is  perhaps  one  of  the  most  beautiful  and 
vivid  pictures  in  the  whole  compass  of  English 
poetry. 

Behold,  while  she  before  the  altar  stands, 
Hearing  the  holy  priest  that  to  her  speaks, 
And  blesses  her  with  his  two  happy  hands, 
How  the  red  roses  flush  up  in  her  cheeks, 
And  the  pure  snow,  with  goodly  vermeil  stain, 
Like  crimson  died  in  grain ! 
That  even  the  angels,  which  continually 
About  the  sacred  altar  do  remain, 
Forget  their  service,  and  about  her  fly, 

*  Sonnet  66. 


ROSALIND   AND   ELIZABETH.  179 

uft  peeping  in  her  face,  which  seems  more  fair, 
The  more  they  on  it  stare. 
But  her  sad  eyes,  still  fastened  on  the  ground, 
Are  governed  with  a  goodly  modesty 
That  suffers  not  a  look  to  glance  away, 
Which  may  let  in  a  little  thought  unsound. 
Why  blush  ye,  love !  to  give  to  me  your  hand 
The  pledge  of  all  our  band ! 

Sing !  ye  sweet  angels !  Hallelujah  sing ! 
That  all  the  woods  may  answer,  and  their  echoes  ring  I 

And  the  rapturous  apostrophe  to  the  evening  star 
is  in  a  fine  strain  of  poetry. 

Late,  though  it  be,  at  last  I  see  it  gloom, 

And  the  bright  evening  star,  with  golden  crest, 

Appear  out  of  the  west! 

Fair  child  of  beauty !  glorious  lamp  of  love ! 

That  all  the  host  of  heaven  in  ranks  dost  lead, 

And  guidest  lovers  through  the  night's  sad  dread, 

How  cheerfully  thou  lookest  from  above, 

And  seem'st  to  laugh  atween  thy  twinkling  light! 

As  Ariosto  has  contrived  to  introduce  his  per- 
sonal feelings,  and  the  memory  of  his  love,  into  the 
Orlando  Furioso,  so  Spenser  has  enshrined  his  in 
the  Fairy  Queen ;  but  he  has  not,  I  think,  suc- 
ceeded so  well  in  the  manner  of  celebrating  the 
woman  lie  delighted  to  honor.  Ariosto  has  the 
advantage  over  the  English  poet,  in  delicacy  and 
propriety  of  feeling  as  well  as  power.  Spenser's 
picture  of  the  swelling  eminence,  the  lawn,  the 
Mustering  trees,  the  cascade — 

Whose  silver  waves  did  softly  tumble  down, 


180  ROSALIND    AND    ELIZABETH. 

haunted  by  nymphs  and  fairies;  the  bevy  ol 
beauties  who  dance  in  a  circle  round  the  lady  of 
his  love,  while  he  himself,  in  his  character  of  Colin 
Clout,  sits  aloof  piping  on  his  oaten  reed,  remind 
us  of  one  of  Claude's  landscapes ;  and  the  differ- 
ence between  the  pastoral  luxuriance  of  this  diffuse 
description,  and  the  stately  magnificence  of  Ari- 
osto's,  is  very  characteristic  of  the  two  poets. 
Were  I  to  choose,  however,  I  would  rather  have 
been  the  object  of  Ariosto's  compliment  than  of 
Spenser's.  The  passage  in  the  Fairy  Queen  occurs 
in  the  10th  canto  of  Legend  of  Sir  Calidore ;  and 
all  his  commentators  are  agreed  that  the  allusion  is 
to  his  Elizabeth,  and  not  to  Rosalind. 

Both  are  mentioned  in  "  Colin  Clout's  come 
home  again."  Rosalind,  and  her  disdainful  rejec- 
tion of  the  poet's  love,  are  alluded  to  near  the  end, 
in  some  lines  already  quoted ;  but  a  very  beautiful 
passage,  near  the  commencement  of  the  poem, 
slearly  alludes  to  Elizabeth,  under  whose  thrall  he 
tvab  at  the  time  it  was  written. 

Ah!  far  be  it,  (quoth  Colin  Clout,)  fro  me, 
That  I,  of  gentle  maids,  should  ill  deserve, 
For  that  myself  I  do  profess  to  be 
Vassal  to  one,  whom  all  my  days  I  serve ; 
The  beam  of  Beauty,  sparkled  from  above, 
The  flower  of  virtue  and  pure  chastitie ; 
The  blossom  of  sweet  joy  and  perfect  love ; 
The  pearl  of  peerless  grace  and  modesty ! 
To  her,  my  thoughts  I  daily  dedicate ; 
To  her,  my  heart  I  nightly  martyrise ; 
To  her,  my  love  I  lowly  do  prostrate ; 


SPENSER'S    ELIZABETjj.  181 

To  her,  my  life,  I  wholly  sacrifice ;   ^*. 

My  thought,  my  heart,  my  life,  my  love^she !  &c.  >£ 

Spenser  married  his  Elizabeth  about  the  year 
1593.  He  resided  at  this  time  at  the  Castle  of 
Kilcolman,  in  the  south  of  Ireland,  a  portion  of  the 
forfeit  (3d  domains  of  the  Earl  of  Desmond  having 
been  assigned  to  him :  but  the  adherents  of  that 
unhappy  chief  saw  in  Spenser  only  an  invader  of 
their  rights, — a  stranger  living  on  their  inheritance, 
while  they  were  cast  out  to  starvation  or  banish- 
ment. He  and  his  family  dwelt  in  continual  fears 
and  disturbance  from  the  distracted  state  of  the 
country ;  and  at  length,  about  two  years  after  his 
marriage,  he  was  attacked  in  his  castle  by  the 
native  Irish.  He  and  his  wife  escaped  with  dif- 
ficulty, and  one  of  their  children  perished  in  the 
flames.  After  this  catastrophe  they  came  to  Eng- 
land, and  Spenser  died  in  1598,  about  five  years 
after  his  marriage  with  Elizabeth.  The  short 
period  of  their  union,  though  disturbed  by  mis- 
fortunes, losses,  and  worldly  cares,  was  never 
clouded  by  domestic  disquiet.  This  haughty  beauty, 

Whose  lofty  countenance  seemed  to  scorn 

Base  thing,  and  think  how  she  to  heaven  might  climb, 

became  the  tenderest  and  most  faithful  of  wives. 
How  long  she  survived  her  husband  is  not  known ; 
but  though  scarce  past  the  bloom  of  youth  at  the 
period  of  her  loss,  we  have  no  account  of  her 
•Harrying  again. 


182  BHAHSPEARE. 

CHAPTER  XV. 

ON   THE   LOVE   OF   SHAKSPEARE. 

SHAKSPEARE — I  approach  the  subject  with 
reverence,  and  even  with  fear, — is  the  only  poet  I 
am  acquainted  with  and  able  to  appreciate,  who 
appears  to  have  been  really  heaven-inspired :  the 
workings  of  his  wondrous  and  all-embracing  mind 
were  directed  by  a  higher  influence  than  ever  was 
exercised  by  woman,  even  in  the  plenitude  of  her 
power  and  her  charms.  Shakspeare's  genius  waited 
not  on  Love  and  Beauty,  but  Love  and  Beauty 
ministered  to  him  ;  he  perceived  like  a  spirit ;  he 
was  created,  to  create ;  his  own  individuality  is 
lost  in  the  splendor,  the  reality,  and  the  variety  of 
his  own  conceptions.  When  I  think  what  those 
are,  I  feel  how  needless,  how  vain  it  were  to  swell 
the  universal  voice  with  one  so  weak  as  mine. 
Who  would  care  for  it  that  knows  and  feels  Shak- 
speare  ?  Who  would  listen  to  it  that  does  not,  if 
there  be  such  ? 

It  is  not  Shakspeare  as  a  great  power  bearing  a 
great  name, — but  Shakspeare  in  his  less  divine  and 
less  known  character, — as  a  lover  and  a  man,  who 
finds  a  place  here.  The  only  writings  he  has  left, 
through  which  we  can  trace  any  thing  of  his  per- 
sonal feelings  and  affections,  are  his  Sonnets. 
Every  one  who  reads  them,  who  has  tenderness  or 


8HAKSPEARE.  183 

taste,  will  echo  Wordsworth's  denunciation  against 
the  "  flippant  insensibility  "  of  some  of  his  com- 
mentators, who  talked  of  an  Act  of  Parliament 
not  being  strong  enough  to  compel  their  perusal ; 
and  will  agree  in  his  opinion,  that  they  are  full  of 
the  most  exquisite  feelings,  most  felicitously  ex- 
pressed ;  but  as  to  the  object  to  whom  they  were 
addressed,  a  difference  of  opinion  prevails.  From 
a  reference,  however,  to  all  that  is  known  of 
Shakspeare's  life  and  fortunes,  compared  with  the 
internal  presumptive  evidence  contained  in  the 
Sonnets,  it  appears  that  some  of  them  are  ad- 
dressed to  his  amiable  friend,  Lord  Southampton  : 
and  others,  I  think,  are  addressed  in  Southampton's 
name,  to  that  beautiful  Elizabeth  Vernon,  to  whom 
the  Earl  was  so  long  and  ardently  attached,*  The 
Queen,  who  did  not  encourage  matrimony  among 
her  courtiers,  absolutely  refused  her  consent  to 
their  union.  She  treated  him  as  she  did  Raleigh 
in  the  affair  of  Elizabeth  Throckmorton ;  and 
Southampton,  after  four  years'  impatient  submission 
and  still  increasing  love,  as  tenderly  returned  by 
his  mistress,  married  without  the  Queen's  knowl- 
edge, lost  her  favor  forever,  and  nearly  lost  his 
head.f 

«  She  was  the  grandmother  of  Lady  Rmsell. 

t  Elizabeth  Vernon  was  first  cousin  to  Essex.  "  Was  it 
treason?  "  asked  Essex  indignantly,  in  one  of  his  eloquent 
letters;  "  Was  it  treason  in  my  Lord  of  Southampton  to  marry 
my  poor  kinswoman,  that  neither  long  imprisonment,  nor  any 
vanishment  besides  that  hath  been  usual  in  such  cases,  can 
satisfy  or  appease?  " 


184  SHAKSPEARE. 

That  Lord  Southampton  is  the  subject  of  the 
first  fifty-five  Sonnets  is  sufficiently  clear ;  and 
some  of  these  are  perfectly  beautiful, — as  the  30th, 
32d,  41st,  54th.  There  are  others  scattered 
through  the  rest  of  the  volume,  on  the  same  sub- 
ject ;  but  there  are  many  which  admit  of  no  such 
interpretation,  and  are  without  doubt  inspired 
by  the  real  object  of  a  real  passion,  of  whom 
nothing  can  be  discovered,  but  that  she  was  dark- 
eyed*  and  dark-haired,*  that  she  excelled  in 
music,f  an^  tnat  sne  was  one  °f  a  c^ass  °f  females 
who  do  not  always,  in  losing  all  right  to  our  respect, 
lose  also  their  claim  to  the  admiration  of  the  sex 
who  wronged  them,  or  the  compassion  of  the 
gentler  part  of  their  own,  who  have  rejected  them. 
This  is  so  clear  from  various  passages,  that  un- 
happily there  can  be  no  doubt  of  it.J  He  has 
flung  over  her,  designedly  it  should  seem,  a  veil 
of  immortal  texture  and  fadeless  hues,  "  branched 
and  embroidered  like  the  painted  Spring,"  but 
almost  impenetrable  even  to  our  imagination. 
There  are  few  allusions  to  her  personal  beauty, 
which  can  in  any  way  individualize  her,  but  bursts 
of  deep  and  passionate  feeling,  and  eloquent  re- 
proach, and  contending  emotions,  which  show,  that 
if  she  could,  awaken  as  much  love  and  impart  as 
much  happiness  as  woman  ever  inspired  or  be- 
stowed, he  endured  on  her  account  all  the  pangs 
of  agony,  and  shame,  and  jealousy; — that  our 

*  Sonnets  127, 130.  t  Sonnet  12fe. 

t  See  "  Donee's  Illustrations  of  Shakspeare." 


SHAKSPEARE.  18fi 

Shakspeare — he,  who,  in  the  omnipotence  of 
genius,  wielded  the  two  worlds  of  reality  and 
imagination  in  either  hand,  who  was  in  conception 
and  in  act  scarce  less  than  a  GOD,  was  in  passion 
and  suffering  not  more  than  a  MAN. 

Instead  of  any  elaborate  description  of  her 
person,  we  have,  in  the  only  Sonnet  which  sets 
forth  her  charms,  the  rich  materials  for  a  picture, 
rather  than  the  picture  itself. 

The  forward  violet  thus  did  I  chide : 
Sweet  thief,  whence  didst  thou  steal  thy  sweet  that  smells, 

If  not  from  my  Love's  breath?     The  purple  pride 
Which  on  thy  soft  cheek  for  complexion  dwells, 

In  my  Love's  veins  thou  hast  too  grossly  dy'd. 
The  lily  I  condemned  for  thy  hand, 

And  buds  of  marjoram  had  stolen  thy  hair: 
The  roses  fearfully  on  thorns  did  stand, 

One  blushing  shame,  another  white  despair; 
A  third,  nor  red  nor  white,  had  stolen  of  both, 

And  to  his  robbery  had  annex'd  thy  breath; 
But  for  his  theft,  in  pride  of  all  his  growth 

A  vengeful  canker  eat  him  up  to  death. 
More  flowers  I  noted,  yet  I  none  could  see, 
But  sweet,  or  color,  it  had  stolen  from  thee. 

He  intimates  that  he  found  a  rival  in  one  of  his 
own  most  intimate  friends,  who  was  also  a  poet.* 
He  laments  her  absence  in  this  exquisite  strain  ;— 

How  like  a  whiter  hath  my  absence  beeu 
From  thee,  the  pleasure  of  the  fleeting  year  I 
What  freezings  have  I  felt,  what  dark  days  seen, 
What  old  December's  bareness  everywhere! 

*  Sonnets  80,  83. 


SHAKSPEAUE. 


For  Slimmer  and  his  pleasure  wait  on  tliee, 
And  thou  away,  the  veiy  birds  are  mute  ! 

He  dwells  with  complacency  on  her  supposed  truth 
and  tenderness,  her  bounty  like  Juliet's,  "  bound- 
less as  the  sea,  her  love  as  deep." 

Kind  is  my  love  to-day,  to-morrow  kind, 
Still  constant  in  a  wondrous  excellence. 

Then,  as  if  conscious  upon  how  unstable  a  founda- 
tion he  had  built  his  love,  he  expresses  his  fear  lest 
he  should  be  betrayed,  yet  remain  unconscious  of 
the  wrong. 

For  there  can  live  no  hatred  m  thine,  eye, 
Therefore  in  that  I  cannot  know  thy  change  ! 

In  many's  looks,  the  false  heart's  history 
Is  writ  in  moods  and  frowns,  and  wrinkles  strange. 

But  heaven  in  thy  creation  did  decree, 
That  in  thy  face  sweet  love  should  ever  dwell. 

He  bitterly  reproaches  her  with  her  levity  and 
falsehood,  and  himself  that  he  can  be  thus  un- 
worthily enslaved,  — 

What  potions  have  I  drunk  of  Syren  tears,  &c. 
riien,  with  lover-like  inconsistency,  excuses  her,— 

As  on  the  finger  of  a  throned  queen 
The  basest  jewel  will  be  well  esteemed; 

So  are  those  errors  that  in  thee  are  seen 
To  truths  translated,  aud  for  true  things  deem'tt. 


SHAKSPKARK.  187 

And  the  following  are  powerfully  and   painfully 

gxpressive : — 

How  sweet  and  lovely  dost  thou  make  the  shame, 
"W  nich,  like  a  canker  in  the  fragrant  roso, 

Doth  spot  the  beauty  of  thy  budding  name ! 
Oh,  in  what  sweets  dost  thou  thy  sins  enclose ! 

O,  what  a  mansion  have  those  vices  got, 
Which  for  their  habitation  chose  out  thee, 

Where  Beauty's  veil  doth  cover  every  blot, 
And  all  things  turn  to  fair  that  eyes  can  see ! 

"  Who  taught  thee,"  he  says  in  another  Sonnet, 

—  to  make  me  love  thee  more 
The  more  I  hear,  and  see  just  cause  for  hate? 

Ho  who  wrote  these  and  similar  passages  was 
certainly  under  the  full  and  irresistible  influence  of 
female  fascination.  But  who  it  was  that  thus  ruled 
the  universal  heart  and  mighty  spirit  of  our  Shak- 
speare,  we  know  not.  She  stands  behind  him  a 
veiled  and  a  nameless  phantom.  Neither  dare  we 
call  in  Fancy  to  penetrate  that  veil;  for  who 
would  presume  to  trace  even  the  faintest  outline 
of  such  a  being  as  Shakspeare  could  have  loved  ? 
«  *  *  *  * 

I  think  it  doubtful  to  whom  were  addressed  those 
exquisite  lines, 

Then  hate  me  when  thou  wilt,  if  ever,  now!  &o.* 
liut  probably  to  this  very  person. 

*  Sonnet  172. 


188  SHAKSPEARE. 

The  Sonnets  in  which  he  alludes  to  his  profession 
as  an  actor ;  where  he  speaks  of  the  brand,  "  which 
vulgar  scandal  stamped  upon  his  brow,"  and  of  hav- 
ing made  himself  "  a  motley  to  men's  view,"*  are 
undoubtedly  addressed  to  Lord  Southampton. 

0,  for  my  sake,  do  you  with  Fortune  chide, 

The  guilty  goddess  of  my  harmful  deeds, 
That  did  not  better  for  my  life  provide, 

Than  public  means,  which  public  manners  breeds ; 
Thence  comes  it  that  my  name  receives  a  brand, 

And  almost  thence  my  nature  is  subdu'd 
To  what  it  works  in,  like  the  dyer's  hand. 

Tity  me  then,  and  wish  I  were  renew'd. 

The  last  I  shall  remark,  perhaps  the  finest  of  all, 
and  breathing  the  very  soul  of  profound  tenderness 
and  melancholy  feeling,  must,  I  think,  have  been 
addressed  to  a  female. 

No  longer  mourn  for  me  when  I  am  dead 

Than  you  shall  hear  the  surly  sullen  bell 
Give  warning  to  the  world  that  I  am  fled 

From  this  vile  earth,  with  vilest  worms  to  dwell: 
Nay,  if  you  read  this  line,  remember  not 

The  hand  that  writ  it ;  for  I  love  you  so, 
That  I  in  your  sweet  thoughts  would  be  forgot, 

If  thinking  on  me  then  should  mnke  you  woe. 
0  if  (I  say)  you  look  upon  this  verse, 

When  I  perhaps  compounded  am  with  clay 
Do  not  so  much  as  my  poor  name  rehearse : 

But  let  your  love  ev'n  with  my  life  decay: 
Lest  the  wise  world  should  look  into  your  moan, 
And  mock  you  with  me  after  I  am  gone. 

*  Sonnets  110,  111. 


SHAKSPEARE.  183 

The  period  assigned  to  the  composition  of  these 
Sonnets,  and  the  attachment  which  inspired  them, 
is  the  time  when  Shakspeare  was  living  a  wild  arid 
irregular  life,  between  the  court  and  the  theatre, 
after  his  flight  from  Stratford.  He  had  previously 
married,  at  the  age  of  seventeen,  ^K^iS^Hatha- 
way,  who  was  eight  or  ten  years  older  than  himself: 
he  returned  to  his  native  town,  after  having  sound- 
ed all  depths  of  life,  of  nature,  of  passion,  and 
ended  his  days  as  the  respected  father  of  a  family, 
in  calm,  unostentatious  privacy. 

One  thing  I  will  confess  : — It  is  natural  to  feel 
an  intense  and  insatiable  curiosity  relative  to  great 
men,  a  curiosity  and  interest  for  which  nothing  can 
be  too  minute,  too  personal. — And  yet  when  I  had 
ransacked  all  that  had  ever  been  written,  discov- 
ered, or  surmised,  relative  to  Shakspeare's  private 
life,  for  the  purpose  of  throwing  some  light  upon 
his  Sonnets,  I  felt  no  gratification,  no  thankfulness 
to  those  whose  industry  had  raked  up  the  very  few 
particulars  which  can  be  known.  It  is  too  much, 
and  it  is  not  enough  :  it  disappoints  us  in  one  point 
of  view— -it  is  superfluous  in  another  :  what  need  to 
surround  with  common-place,  trivial  associations, 
registers  of  wills  and  genealogies,  and  I  know  not 
what, — the  mighty  spirit  who  in  dying  left  behind 
him  not  merely  a  name  and  fame,  but  a  perpetual 
being,  a  presence  and  a  power,  identified  with  our 
nature,  diffused  through  all  time,  and  ruling  the 
heart  and  the  fancy  with  an  uncontrollable  and 
universal  sway  I 


190  SYDNEY'S  STELLA. 

I  rejoice  that  the  name  of  no  one  woman  is  pop- 
ularly identified  with  that  of  Shakspeare.  He  be- 
longs to  us  all ! — the  creator  of  Desdemona,  and 
Juliet,  and  Ophelia,  and  Imogen,  and  Viola,  and 
Constance,  and  Cornelia,  and  Rosalind,  and  Por- 
tia, was  not  the  poet  of  one  woman,  but  the 
POET  OF  WOMANKIND. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

SYDNEY'S  STELLA. 

AT  the  very  name  of  Sir  Philip  Sydney, — the 
generous,  gallant,  all-accomplished  Sydney, — the 
roused  fancy  wakes,  as  at  the  sound  of  a  silver 
trumpet,  to  all  the  gay  and  splendid  associations  of 
chivalry  and  romance.  He  was  in  the  court  of 
Elizabeth,  what  Surrey  had  been  in  that  of  her 
father,  Henry  the  Eighth ;  and  like  his  prototype, 
Sir  Calidore  in  the  Fairy  Queen, — 

Every  look  and  word  that  he  did  say 

Was  like  enchantment,  that  through  both  the  ears 

And  both  the  eyes,  did  steal  the  heart  away. 

And  as  Surrey  had  his  Fair  Geraldine,  Sydney  had 
his  Stella. 

Simplicity  was  not  the  fashion  of  Elizabeth's  age 


'  SYDNEY'S  STELLA.  191 

m  any  particular ;  the  conversation  at.d  the  poetry 
addressed  by  her  stately  romantic  courtiers  to  her 
and  her  maids  of  honor,  were  like  the  dresses  they 
wore, — stiff  with  jewels  and  standing  on  end  with 
embroidery,  gorgeous  of  hue  and  fantastic  in  form ; 
but  with  many  a  brilliant  gem  of  exceeding  price, 
scattered  up  and  down,  where  one  would  scarce 
think  to  find  them  ;  losing  something  of  their  effect 
by  being  misplaced,  but  none  of  their  inherent 
beauty  and  value.  The  poetry  of  Sir  Philip  Syd- 
ney was  extravagantly  admired  in  his  own  time, 
.and  it  has  since  been  less  read  than  it  deserves. 
A  contains  much  of  the  pedantic  quaintness,  the 
labored  ornament,  the  cumbrous  phraseology,  which 
was  the  taste,  the  language  of  the  day  :  but  he  had 
elegance  of  mind  and  tenderness  of  feeling ;  above 
all,  he  was  in  earnest,  and  accordingly,  there  are 
oeautiful  and  brilliant  things  scattered  through 
ooth  his  poetry  and  prose.  If  his  "  Phoenix- Stella  " 
be  less  popularly  celebrated  than  the  Fair  Gerald- 
ine, — her  name  less  intimate  with  our  fancy, — it  is 
not  because  her  poet  lacked  skill  to  immortalize  her 
in  superlatives:  it  is  the  recollection  of  the  mourn- 
ful fate  and  darkened  fame  of  that  beautiful  but 
ill-starred  woman,  contrasted  with  the  brilliant 
career  and  spotless  glory  of  her  lover,  which  strikes 
the  imagination  with  a  painful  contrast,  and  makes 
us  reluctant  to  dwell  on  her  memorv. 

The  Stella  of  Sydney's  poetry,  and  the  Philo- 
<;lea  of  his  Arcadia,  was  the  Lady  Penelope  Deve- 
reux,  the  elder  sister  of  the  favorite  Essex.  While 


192  SYDNEY'S  STELLA.  ' 

yet  in  her  childhood,  she  was  the  intended  bridft 
of  Sydney,  and  for  several  years  they  were  consid- 
ered as  almost  engaged  to  each  other ;  it  was  natural, 
therefore,  at  this  time,  that  he  should  be  accus- 
tomed to  regard  her  with  tenderness  and  unre- 
proved  admiration,  and  should  gratify  both  by 
making  her  the  object  of  his  poetical  raptures.  She 
vras  also  less  openly,  but  even  more  ardently,  loved 
by  young  Charles  Blount,  afterwards  Lord  Mount- 
joy,  who  seems  to  have  disputed  with  Sydney  the 
first  place  in  her  heart. 

She  is  described  as  a  woman  of  exquisite  beauty; 
on  a  grand  and  splendid  scale;  dark  sparkling 
eyes  ;  pale  brown  hair  :  a  rich  vivid  complexion  ; 
a  regal  brow  and  a  noble  figure.  Sydney  tells  us 
that  she  was  at  first  "  most  fair,  most  cold  ;  " — and 
the  beautiful  sonnet, 

With  how  sad  steps,  0  moon,  thou  climb'st  the  sky !  # 
How  silently,  and  with  how  wan  a  face ! 

refers  to  his  earlier  feelings.  He  describes  a  tilt- 
ing match,  held  in  presence  of  the  Queen  and 
Court,  in  which  he  came  off  victor — 

Having  this  day  my  horse,  my  hand,  my  lance, 

Guided  so  well,  that  I  obtained  the  prize,  &c.f 

• 

"  Stella  looked  on,"  he  says,  "  and  from  her  fair 
eyes  sent  forth  the  encouraging  glance  that  gave 
him  victory."  These  soft  and  brilliant  eyes  are 

*  Sonnet  81.  t  Sonnet  41. 


SYDNEY'S  STELLA.  193 

often  and  beautifully  touched  upon  ;  and  it  must  be 
remarked,  never  without  an  allusion  to  the  modesty 
of  their  expression. 

0  eyes !  that  do  the  spheres  of  beauty  move, 

Which,  while  they  make  Love  conquer,  conquer  Love. 

And  on  some  occasion,  when  she  turned  from  him 
bashfully,  he  addresses  her  in  a  most  impassioned 
strain, — 

Soul's  joy !  bend  not  those  morning  stars  from  me, 
Where  virtue  is  made  strong  by  beauty's  might, 
Where  love  is  chasteness — pain  doth  learn  delight 
And  humbleness  doth  dwell  with  majesty  : 
Whatever  may  ensue,  0  let  me  be 
Copartner  of  the  riches  of  that  sight; 
Let  not  my  eyes  be  hell-driven  from  that  light, 
0  look !  0  shine !  0  let  me  die,  and  see !  * 

Another,  "  To  Sleep,"  is  among  the  most  beau- 
tiful, and  I  believe  more  generally  known. 

Look  up,  fair  lids !  the  treasure  of  my  heart!  &c. 

There  is  also  much  vivacity  and  earnest  feeling 
in  the  lines  addressed  to  one  who  had  lately  left 
the  presence  of  Stella,  and  of  whom  he  inquires 
of  her  welfare.  Whoever  has  known  what  it  is  to 
be  separated  from  those  beloved,  to  ask  after  them 
with  anxious  yet  suppressed  fondness,  of  some  un- 
Bympathizing  acquaintance,  to  be  alternately  tan- 
talized and  desespere,  by  their  vague  and  careless 

*  Sonnet  48. 
13 


194  SYDNEY'S  STELLA. 

replies,  will  understand,  will  feel  their  truth  ano 
beauty.  Even  the  quaint,  petulant  commencement 
is  true  to  the  sentiment  : 

Be  your  words  made,  good  Sir,  of  Indian  ware, 
That  you  allow  me  them  at  so  small  rate? 


When  I  demand  of  Phoenix  Stella's  state, 
You  say,  forsooth,  "  You  left  her  well  of  late." 

0  God!  think  you  that  satisfies  my  care? 

1  would  know  whether  she  do  sit  or  walk,  — 

How  clothed,  how  waited  on?  sighed  she,  or  smiled? 
Whereof—  with  whom  —  how  often  did  she  talk? 
With  what  pastime  time's  journey  she  beguiled? 
If  her  lips  deign'd  to  sweeten  my  poor  name? 
Say  all!  and  all  well  said,  still  say  the  same! 

At  length,  after  the  usual  train  of  hopes,  fears, 
complaints,  and  raptures,  the  lady  begins  to  look 
with  pity  and  favor  on  the  "  ruins  of  her  con- 
quest ;  "  *  and  he  exults  in  an  acknowledged  return 
of  love,  though  her  heart  be  given  conditionally,  — 

His  only,  while  he  virtuous  courses  takes. 

So  far  Stella  appears  in  a  most  amiable  and  cap- 
tivating light,  worthy  of  the  romantic  homage  of 
her  accomplished  lover.  But  a  dark  shade  steals, 
like  a  mildew,  over  this  bright  picture  of  beauty 
poetry,  and  love,  even  while  we  gaze  upon  it 
The  projected  union  between  Sydney  and  Lady 
Penelope  was  finally  broken  off  by  their  respective 

*  Sonnet  54- 


SYDNEY'S  STELLA.  195 

"amilies,  for  reasons  which  do  not  appear.*  Sir 
Charles  Blount  offered  himself,  and  was  refused, 
though  evidently  agreeable  to  the  lady ;  and  she 
was  married  by  her  guardians  to  Lord  Rich,  a  Uian 
of  talents  and  integrity,  but  most  disagreeable  IP 
person  and  manners,  and  her  declared  aversion. 

This  inauspicious  union  ended,  as  might  have 
been  expected,  in  misery  and  disgrace.  Lady 
Rich  bore  her  fate  with  extreme  impatience.  Her 
warm  affections,  her  high  spirit,  and  her  strength 
of  mind,  so  heroically  displayed  in  behalf  of  her 
brother,  served  but  to  render  her  more  poignantly 
sensible  of  the  tyranny  which  had  forced  her  into 
detested  bonds.  She  could  not  forget, — perhaps 
never  wished  or  sought  to  forget — that  she  had 
received  homage  of  the  two  most  accomplished 
men  of  the  time, — Sydney  and  Blount ;  "  and  not 
finding  that  satisfaction  at  home  she  ought  to  have 
received,  she  looked  for  it  abroad  where  she  ought 
not  to  find  it." 

Sydney  describes  a  secret  interview  which  took 
p^ace  between  himself  and  Lady  Rich  shortly  aftei 
her  marriage.  I  should  have  observed,  that  Sydney 


*  (<  All  the  lords  that  wish  well  to  the  children  cf  the  Earl  of 
Essex,  and  I  suppose  all  the  best  sorte  of  the  English  lord* 
besides,  doe  expect  what  will  become  of  the  treaty  between  Mr 
Philip  and  my  Lady  Penelope.  Truly,  ny  Lord,  I  must  say  tr 
your  lordship,  as  I  have  said  it  to  my  Lord  of  Leicester  and  Mr. 
Philip,  the  breaking  off  this  match,  if  the  default  be  on  your 
paits,  will  turn  to  more  dishonor  than  can  be  repaired  with  any 
other  marriage  in  England."— Letter  of  Mr.  Water'iouse  to  Sir 
Henry  Sydney,  in  the  Sydney  Papers. 


196  SYDNEY'S  STELLA. 

designates  himself  all  through  his  poems  by  wb« 
name  of  Astrophel. 

In  a  grove,  most  rich  of  shade, 

Where  birds  wanton  music  made, 

May,  then  young,  his  pied  weeds  showing 

New  perfumed  with  flowers  fresh  growing, 

Astrophel,  with  Stella  sweet, 

Did  to  mutual  comfort  meet; 

Both  within  themselves  opprest, 

But  each  in  the  other  blest; 

Him  great  harms  had  taught  much  care, 

Her  fair  neck  afoul  yoke  bear ; 

But  her  sight  his  cares  did  banish, 

In  his  sight  her  yoke  did  vanish,  &c. 

He  pleads  the  time,  the  place,  the  season,  •  \Q 
tfieir  divided  vows ;  and  would  have  pressed  ^« 
suit  more  warmly, 

But  her  hand  his  hands  repelling, 
Gave  repulse — all  grace  excelling ! 

***** 
Then  she  spake !  her  speech  was  such 
As  not  ear,  but  heart  did  touch, 
"Astrophel,  (said  she,)  my  love, 
Cease  in  these  effects  to  prove! 
Now  be  still ! — yet  still  believe  me, 
Thy  grief  more  than  death  would  grieve  ai» 
Trust  me,  while  I  thus  deny, 
In  myself  the  smart  I  try : 
Tyrant  honor  doth  thus  use  thee; 
Stella's  self  might  not  refuse  thee ! 
Therefore,  dear!  this  DO  more  move; 
Lest  though  I  leave  not  thy  love, 
(Which  too  deep  in  me  is  framed!) 
I  should  blush  when  ihou  art  named! 


SIDNEY'S  STELLA.  197 

The  sentiment  he  has  made  her  express  in  the 
last  line  is  beautiful,  and  too  feminine  and  appro- 
priate not  to  have  been  taken  from  nature  ;  but, 
unhappily,  it  did  not  always  govern  her  conduct. 
How  far  her  coquetry  proceeded,  we  do  not  know. 
Sydney,  about  a  year  afterwards,  married  the 
daughter  of  Secretary  Walsingham,  and  survived 
his  marriage  but  a  short  time.  This  theme  of  song, 
this  darling  of  fame,  and  ornament  of  his  age,  per- 
ished at  the  battle  of  Zutphen,  in  the  very  summer 
of  his  glorious  youth.  "  He  had  trod,"  as  the  au- 
thor of  the  Effigies  Poeticse  so  beautifully  expressed 
it,  "  from  his  cradle  to  his  grave,  amid  incense  and 
flowers— and  died  in  a  dream  of  glory  ! " 

His  death  was  not  only  such  as  became  the  sol- 
dier and  Christian ; — the  natural  elegance  and  sen- 
sibility of  his  mind  followed  him  even  to  the  verge 
of  the  tomb :  in  his  last  moments,  when  the  morti- 
fication had  commenced,  and  all  hope  was  over,  he 
called  for  music  in  his  chamber,  and  lay  listening 
to  it  with  tranquil  pleasure.  Sydney  died  in  his 
thirty-fourth  year. 

Among  the  numerous  poets  who  lamented  this 
deep-felt  loss  (volumes,  I  believe,  were  filled  with 
the  tributes  paid  to  his  memory,)  was  Spenser, 
whom  Sydney  had  early  patronized.  His  elegy, 
however,  is  too  labored,  too  lengthy,  too  artificial, 
to  please  altogether,  though  containing  some  lines 
of  great  beauty.  It  is  singular,  and  a  little  incom- 
prehensible to  our  modern  ideas  of  Inenseance  and 
good  taste,  that  in  his  elegy,  which  Spenser  dedi- 


198  SYDNEY'S  STELLA. 

catcs  to  Sydney's  widow  after  her  remarriage  with 
Essex,  he  introduces  Stella  as  lamenting  over  the 
body  of  Astrophel,  tells  us  how  she  beat  her  fair 
bosom — "  the  treasury  of  joy," — how  she  tore  her 
lovely  hair,  wept  out  her  eyes, — 

And  with  sweet  kisses  suckt  the  parting  breath 
Out  of  his  lips. 

At  length,  through  excess  of  grief,  or  the  com- 
passion of  the  gods,  she  is  changed  into  the  flower, 
"  by  some  called  starlight,  by  others  penthia." 
This  might  pass  in  those  days ;  though,  considering 
all  the  circumstances,  it  is  strange  that,  even  then, 
it  escaped  ridicule. 

The  tears  shed  for  Sydney,  by  those  nearest  and 
dearest  to  him,  were  but  too  soon  dried.  His 
widow  was  consoled  by  Essex,  and  his  Stella,  by 
her  old  lover  Mountjoy,  who  returned  from  Ire- 
land, flushed  with  victory  and  honors,  and  cast 
himself  again  at  her  feet.  Their  secret  intercourse 
remained,  for  several  years,  undiscovered.  Lady 
Rich,  who  was  tenderly  attached  to  her  brother, 
was  guarded  in  her  conduct,  fearing  equally  the 
loss  of  his  esteem,  and  the  renewal  of  those  hostile 
feelings  which  had  already  caused  one  duel  be- 
tween Essex  and  Mountjoy.  She  had  also  chil- 
dren ;  and  as  all,  without  exception,  lived  to  be 
distinguished  men  and  virtuous  women,  we  may 
give  her  credit  for  some  attention  to  their  educa- 
tion,— some  compunctious  visitings  of  nature  on 
their  account 


SYDNEY'S  STELLA.  199 

During  her  brother's  imprisonment,  she  made  th* 
most  strenuous,  the  most  persevering  efforts  to  'save 
his  life^  she  besieged  Elizabeth  with  the  richest 
presents,  the  most  eloquent  letters  of  supplication ; 
— she  waylaid  her  at  the  door  of  her  chamber,  till 
commanded  to  remain  a  prisoner  in  her  own  house; 
— she  bribed,  or  otherwise  won,  all  whom  she 
thought  could  plead  his  cause ; — and  when  these 
were  of  no  avail,  and  Essex  perished,  she  seems,  in 
her  despair,  to  have  thrown  off  all  restraint — and 
at  length,  fled  from  the  house  of  her  husband. 

In  1605  she  was  legally  divorced  from  Lord 
Rich  ;  and  soon  after  married  Mountjoy,  then  Earl 
of  Devonshire.  The  marriage  of  a  divorced  wife 
in  the  lifetime  of  her  first  husband,  was  in  those 
days  a  thing  almost  unprecedented  in  the  English 
court,  and  caused  the  most  violent  outcry  and 
scandal.  Laud  (the  archbishop,  then  chaplain  to 
the  Earl  of  Devonshire)  incurred  the  censure  of 
the  Church  for  uniting  the  lovers,  and  ever  after 
fasted  on  the  anniversary  of  this  fatal  marriage. 
The  Earl,  one  of  the  most  admirable  and  distin- 
guished men  of  that  chivalrous  age,  who  "felt  a 
stain  as  a  wound,"  found  it  impossible  to  endure 
•the  infamy  brought  on  himself  and  the  woman  he 
lovod :  he  died  about  a  year  aftei  ;  "the  griefe," 
says  a  contemporary,  u  of  this  unhappie  love 
brought  him  to  his  end."* 

His  unfortunate  Countess  lingered   but  a  short 

*  Memoirs  of  King  James's  Peers,  by  Sir  E  Brydges 


200  ORAYTON. 

time  after  him,  and  died  in  a  miserable  oi.s*eurity 
— Sujh  is  the  history  of  Sydney's  STELLA. 

Three  of  her  sons  became  English  Earls ;  the 
eldest,  Earl  of  Warwick ;  the  second,  Earl  of  Hol- 
land ;  and  the  third  (her  son  by  Mountjoy)  Earl 
of  Newport.  The  earldoms  of  Warwick  and 
Holland  were  held  by  her  lineal  descendants,  till 
the  death  of  that  young  Lord  Warwick,  whoso 
mother  married  Addison. 


CHAPTER  XVH. 

COURT  AND  AQE  OP  ELIZABETH. 
DRAYTON,   DANIEL,  DRUMMOND,   &£C. 

THE  voluminous  Drayton*  has  left  a  collection 
of  sonnets  under  the  fantastic  title  of  his  IDEAS. 
Ideas  they  may  be, — but  they  have  neither  poetry, 
nor  passion,  nor  even  elegance; — a  circumstance 
not  very  surprising,  if  it  be  true  that  he  composed 
them  merely  to  show  his  ingenuity  in  a  style  which 
was  then  the  prevailing  fashion  of  his  time.  Dray- 
ton  was  never  married,  and  little  is  known  of  hi? 
private  life.  He  loved  a  lady  of  Coventry,  t9 
whom  he  promises  an  immortality  he  has  not  bee» 
able  to  confer. 

*  Died  1631. 


DANIEL.  201 

How  many  paltry,  foolish,  painted  things 

That  now  in  coaches  trouble  eveiy  street, 
Shall  be  forgotten,  whom  no  poet  sings, 

E'er  they  be  well  wrapp'd  in  their  winding-sheet? 
While  I  to  thee  eternity  shall  give, 

When  nothing  else  remaineth  of  these  days, 
And  Queens  hereafter  shall  be  glad  to  live 

Upon  the  alms  of  thy  superfluous  praise; 
Virgins  and  matrons  reading  these  my  rhyme?, 

Shall  be  so  much  delighted  with  thy  story, 
That  they  shall  grieve  they  liv'd  not  in  these  times> 

To  have  seen  thee,  their  sex's  only  glory: 
So  thou  shalt  fly  above  the  vulgar  throng, 
Still  to  survive  in  my  immortal  song. 

There  are  fine  nervous  lines  in  this  sonnet :  we 
long  to  hail  the  exalted  beauty  who  is  announced 
by  such  a  flourish  of  trumpets,  and  are  proportion- 
ably  disappointed  to  find  that  she  has  neither  a 
local  habitation  nor  a  name."  Drayton's  little  song, 

I  pr'ythee,  love!  love  me  no  more; 
Take  back  the  heart  you  gave  me! 

stands  unique,  in  point  of  style,  among  the  rest  of 
his  works,  and  is  very  genuine  and  passionate. 

Daniel,*  who  was  munificently  patronized  by  the 
Lord  Mount) oy,  mentioned  in  the  preceding  sketch, 
was  one  of  the  most  graceful  sonnetteers  of  that 
time  ;  and  he  has  touches  of  tenderness  as  well  as 
fancy ;  for  he  was  in  earnest,  and  the  object  of  his 
attachment  was  real,  though  disguised  under  the 
name  of  Delia.  She  resided  on  the  banks  of  the 

*Died  in  3619. 


202  DANIEL. 

River  Avon,  and  was  unmoved  by  the  poet's  strains, 
Rank,  with  her,  outweighed  love  and  genius 
Daniel  says  of  his  sonnets — 

Though  the  error  of  my  youth  in  them  appear, 
Suffice  they  show  I  lived,  and  loved  thee  dear 

The  lines 

Restore  thy  tresses  to  the  golden  ore, 
Yield  Citherea's  son  those  arcs  of  love, 

are  luxuriantly  elegant,  and  quite  Italian  in  the 
How  and  imagery.  Her  modesty  is  prettily  set 
forth  in  another  Sonnet — 

A  modest  maid,  deck'd  with  a  blush  of  honor, 
Whose  feet  do  tread  green  paths  of  youth  and  love, 

The  wonder  of  all  eyes  that  looked  upon  her, 
Sacred  on  earth,  designed  a  Saint  above ! 

After  a  long  series  of  sonnets,  elaborately  plain- 
tive, he  interrupts  himself  with  a  little  touch  of 
truth  and  nature,  which  is  quite  refreshing : 

I  must  not  grieve  my  love !  whose  eyes  should  read 

Lines  of  delight,  whereon  her  youth  might  smile; 
The  flowers  have  time  before  they  come  to  seed, 

And  she  is  young,  and  now  must  sport  the  while. 
And  sport,  sweet  maid !  in  season  of  these  years, 

And  learn  to  gather  flow'rs  before  they  wither; 
And  where  the  sweetest  blossom  first  appears, 

Let  Love  and  Youth  conduct  thy  pleasures  thither. 

If  the  lady  could  have  been  won  by  poetical 
flattery,  she  must  have  yielded.  At  length,  unable 
to  bear  her  obduracj.  and  condemned  to  see 


DRUMMOND.  203 

another  preferred  before  him,  Daniel  resolved  to 
travel;  and  he  wrote,  on  this  occasion,  the  most 
feeling  of  all  his  Sonnets. 

And  whither,  poor  forsaken !  wilt  thou  go  ? 

Daniel  remained  abroad  several  years,  and 
returning,  cured  of  his  attachment,  he  married 
Giustina  Florio,  of  a  family  of  Waldenses,  who  had 
fled  from  the  frightful  persecutions  carried  on  in 
the  Italian  Alps  against  that  miserable  people. 
With  her,  he  appears  to  have  been  sufficiently 
happy  to  forget  the  pain  of  his  former  repulse,  and 
enjoy,  without  one  regretful  pang,  the  fame  it  had 
given  him  as  a  poet. 

Drummond,  of  Hawthornden,*  is  yet  more  cele- 
brated, and  with  reason.  He  has  elegance,  and 
sweetness,  and  tenderness ;  but  not  the  pathos  or 
the  passion  we  might  have  expected  from  the 
circumstances  of  his  attachment,  which  was  as  real 
and  deep,  as  it  was  mournful  in  its  issue.  He 
loved  a  beautiful  girl  of  the  noble-  family  of  Cun- 
ningham, who  is  the  Lesbia  of  his  poetry.  After 
a  fervent  courtship,  he  succeeded  in  securing  her 
affections :  but  she  died,  u  in  the  fresh  April  of  her 
years,"  and  when  their  marriage-day  had  been 
fixed.  Drummond  has  left  us  a  most  charming 
picture  of  his  mistress ;  of  her  modesty,  her  retir- 
ing sweetness,  her  accomplishments,  and  her  tender- 
ness for  him. 

O  sacrei  blush,  empurpling  cheeks,  pure  skies 
With  crimson  wings,  which  spread  thee  like  the  morn? 

'*Died  1(349. 


£04  DRUMMOND. 

0  bashful  look,  sent  from  those  shining  eyes; 

0  tongue  in  which  most  luscious  nectar  lies, 
That  can  at  once  both  bless  and  make  forlorn; 

Dear  coral  lip,  which  beauty  beautifies, 
That  trembling  stood  before  her  words  were  bom ; 

And  you  her  words — words !  no,  but  golden  chains, 
Which  did  enslave  my  ears,  ensnare  my  soul ; 

Wise  image  of  her  mind, — m\nd  that  contains 
A  power,  all  power  of  senses  to  control ; 

So  sweetly  you  from  love  dissuade  do  me, 

That  I  love  more,  if  more  my  love  can  be. 

The  quaint  iteration  of  the  same  word  through 
this  Sonnet  has  not  an  ill  effect.  The  lady  was  in 
a  more  relenting  mood  when  he  wrote  the  Sonnet 
on  her  lips,  "  those  fruits  of  Paradise," — 


I  die,  dear  life !  unless  to  me  be  given 

As  many  kisses  as  the  Spring  hath  flowers, 

Or  there  be  silver  drops  in  Iris'  showers, 
Or  stars  there  be  in  all-embracing  heaven ; 

And  if  displeased  ye  of  the  match  remain, 
Ye  shall  have  leave  to  take  them  back  again  I 

He  mentions  a  nandkerchief,  which,  in  the  days 
of  their  first  tenderness,  she  had  embroidered  for 
him,  unknowing  that  it  was  destined  to  be  steeped 
in  tears  for  her  loss  ! — In  fact,  the  grief  of  Drum- 
oaond  on  this  deprivation  was  so  overwhelming, 
that  ho  sunk  at  first  into  a  total  despondency  and  in- 
activity, from  which  he  was  with  difficulty  roused. 
He  left  the  scene  of  his  happiness,  and  his  re- 
grets- 


QUEEN   ELIZABETH.  205 

Are  these  the  flowery  banks?  is  this  the  mead 

Where  she  was  wont  to  pass  the  pleasant  hours  ? 
Is  this  the  goodly  elm  did  us  o'erspread, 

Whose  tender  rind,  cut  forth  In  curious  flowers 
By  that  white  hand,  contains  those  flames  of  ours? 

Is  this  the  murmuring  spring,  us  music  made  ? 

Deflourish'd  mead,  where  is  your  heavenly  hue? 

Ho  travelled  for  eight  years,  seeking,  in  change 
of  place  and  scene,  some  solace  for  his  wounded 
peace.  There  was  a  kind  of  constancy  even  in 
Drummond's  inconstancy  ;  for  meeting  many  years 
afterwards  with  an  amiable  girl,  who  bore  the  most 
striking  resemblance  to  his  lost  mistress,  he  loved 
her  for  that  very  resemblance,  and  married  her. 
Her  name  was  Margaret  Logan.  I  am  not  aware 
that  there  are  any  verses  addressed  to  her. 

Drummond  has  been  called  the  Scottish  Petrarch : 
he  tells  us  himself,  that "  he  was  the  first  in  this  Isle 
who  did  celebrate  a  dead  mistress," — and  his  re- 
semblance to  Petrarch,  in  elegance  and  sentiment, 
has  often  been  observed :  he  resembles  him,  it  is 
true — but  it  is  as  a  professed  and  palpable  imitator 
resembles  the  object  of  his  imitation. 

***** 

On  glancing  back  at  the  age  of  Elizabeth, — so 
adorned  by  masculine  talents,  in  arts,  in  letters, 
and  in  arms, — we  are  at  first  surprised  to  find  so 
few  distinguished  women.  It  seems  remarkable 
that  a  golden  epoch  in  our  literature,  to  which 
she  gave  her  name,  "  the  Elizabethan  age," — a 
court  in  which  a  female  ruled, — a  period  fruitful 


206  QUEEN   ELIZABETH. 

in  great  poets,  should  have  produced  only  one  01 
two  women  who  are  interesting  from  their  poetical 
celebrity.  Of  these,  Alice  Spenser,  Countess  of 
Derby,  and  Mary  Sydney,  Countess  of  Pembroke, 
(the  sister  of  Philip  Sydney)  are  the  most  remark- 
able ;  the  first  has  enjoyed  the  double  distinction  of 
being  celebrated  by  Spenser  in  her  youth,  and  by 
Milton  in  her  age, — -almost  too  much  honor  for  one 
woman,  though  she  had  been  a  muse,  and  a  grace, 
and  a  cardinal  virtue,  moulded  in  one.  Lady  Pem- 
broke has  been  celebrated  by  Spenser  and  by  Ben 
Jonson,  and  was,  in  every  respect,  a  most  accom- 
plished woman.  To  these  might  be  added  other 
names,  which  might  have  shone  aloft  like  stars, 
and  "  shed  some  influence  on  this  louver  world,"  if 
the  age  had  not  produced  two  women,  so  elevated 
in  station,  and  so  every  way  illustrious  by  acciden- 
tal or  personal  qualities,  that  each,  in  her  respective 
sphere,  extinguished  all  the  lesser  orbs  around  her. 
It  would  have  been  difficult  for  any  female  to 
seize  on  the  attention,  or  claim  either  an  historical 
or  poetical  interest,  in  the  age  of  Queen  Elizabeth 
and  Mary  Stuart. 

In  her  own  court,  Elizabeth  was  not  satisfied  to 
preside.  She  could  as  ill  endure  a  competitor  in 
celebrity  or  charms,  as  in  power.  She  arrogated 
to  herself  all  the  incense  around  her :  and,  in  point 
of  adulation,  she  was  like  the  daughter  of  the 
horse-leech,  whose  cry  was,  "Give!  give!"  Her 
insatiate  vanity  would  have  been  ludicrous,  if  it 
had  not  produced  such  atrocious  consequences 


QUEEN   ELIZABETH.  207 

This  was  the  predominant  weakness  of  her  char- 
acter, which  neutralized  her  talents,  and  was  pam- 
pered, till  in  its  excess  it  became  a  madness  and  a 
vice.  This  precipitated  the  fate  of  her  lovely  rival, 
Mary,  Queen  of  Scots.  This  elevated  the  profli- 
gate Leicester*  to  the  pinnacle  of  favor,  and  kept 
him  there,  sullied  as  he  was  by  every  baseness,  and 
pvery  crime  ;  this  hurried  Essex  to  the  block ;  ban 
ished  Southampton ;  and  sent  Raleigh  and  Eliza- 
beth Throckmorton  to  the  Tower.  Did  one  of  her 
attendants,  more  beautiful  than  the  rest,  attract  the 
notice  or  homage  of  any  of  the  gay  cavaliers 
around  her,— was  an  attachment  whispered,  a  mar- 
riage projected, — it  was  enough  to  throw  the  whole 
court  into  consternation.  "  Her  Majesty,  the 
Queen,  was  in  a  passion ; "  and,  then,  Heaven  help 
the  offenders !  It  was  the  spirit  of  Harry  the 
Eighth  let  loose  again.  Yet  such  is  the  reflected 
glory  she  derives  from  the.  Sydneys  and  the  Ra- 
leighs,  the  Walsinghams  and  Cecils,  the  Shak- 
speares  and  Spensers  of  her  time,  that  we  can 
scarce  look  beyond  it,  to  stigmatize  the  hard,  uu- 
feminine  egotism  of  her  character. 

There  was  something  extremely  poetical  in  her 
situation,  as  a  maiden  queen,  raised  from  a  prison 
to  a  throne,  exposed  to  unceasing  danger  from 
without  and  treason  from  within,  and  supported 
through  all  by  her  own  extraordinary  talents,  and 
by  the  devotion  of  the  chivalrous,  gallant  courtiers 

*  Leicester's  influence  over  Elizabeth  appeared  so  unacfount- 
%ble,  that  it  was  ascribed  to  magic,  and  to»her  evil  stars. 


208  QUEEN    ELIZABETH. 

and  captains,  who  paid  to  her,  as  their  queen  and 
mistress,  a  homage  and  obedience  they  would  scarce 
have  paid  to  a  sovereign  of  their  own  sex.  All 
this  display  of  talent  and  heroism,  and  chivalrous 
gallantry,  has  a  fine  gorgeous  effect  to  the  imagi- 
nation ; — but  for  the  woman  herself, — as  a  woman, 
with  her  pedantry,  and  her  absurd  affection ;  her 
masculine  temper  and  coarse  insolence  ;  her  sharp, 
shrewish,  cat-like  face,  and  her  pretension  to  beau- 
ty, it  is  impossible  to  conceive  any  thing  more  atit  i  • 
poetical. 

Yet  had  she  praises  in  all  plenteousness 
Pour'd  upon  her  like  showers  of  Castalie.* 


She  was  a  favorite  theme  of  the  poets  of  the  time, 
and  by  right  divine  of  her  sceptre  and  her  sex,  an 
object  of  glorious  flattery,  not  always  feigned,  even 
where  it  was  false. 

She  is  the  Gloriana  of  Spenser's  Fairy  Queen, 
— she  is  the  "  Cynthia,  the  ladye  of  the  sea," — she 
is  the  "  Fair  Vestal  throned  in  the  West,"  of 
Shakspeare — 

That  very  time  I  saw,  (but  thou  couldst  not,) 

Flying  between  the  cold  moon  and  the  earth, 

Cupid  all  arm'd:  a  certain  aim  he  took 

At  a  fair  Vestal,  throned  by  the  West, 

And  loosed  his  love-shaft  smartly  from  his  bow 

As  it  should  pierce  a  hundred  thousand  hearts; 

But  I  might  see  young  Cupid's  fiery  shaft 

*  Spenser's  Daphnaida. 


QUEEN    ELIZABETH.  209 

Quench' d  in  the  chaste  beams  of  the  wat'ry  moon; 
And  the  imperial  vot'ress  passed  on 
In  maiden  meditation,  fancy  free. 

And  the  previous  allusion  to  Mary  of  Scotland,  as 
the  "  Sea  Maid  on  the  Dolphin's  back," 

Uttering  such  dulcet  and  harmonious  breath, 
That  the  rude  sea  grew  civil  at  her  song, 

is  not  less  exquisite. 

It  would,  in  truth,  have  been  easier  for  Mary  to 
have  calmed  the  rude  sea  than  her  ruder  and 
wilder  subjects.  These  two  queens,  so  strangely 
misplaced,  seem  as  if,  by  some  sport  of  destiny, 
each  had  dropt  into  the  sphere  designed  for  the 
other.  Mary  should  have  reigned  over  the  Syd- 
neys,  the  Essexes,  the  Mountjoys; — and  with  her 
smiles,  and  sweet  words,  and  generous  gifts,  have 
inspired  and  rewarded  the  poets  around  her.  Eliz- 
abeth should  have  been  transferred  to  Scotland, 
where  she  might  have  bandied  frowns  and  hard 
names  with  John  Knox,  cut  off  the  heads  of  re- 
bellious barons,  and  boxed  the  ears  of  illbred 
courtiers. 

This  is  no  place  to  settle  disputed  points  of  his- 
tory, nor,  if  it  were,  should  I  presume  to  throw  an 
opinion  into  one  scale  or  the  other  ;  but  take  the 
two  queens  as  women  merely,  and  with  a  reference 
to  apparent  circumstances,  I  would  rather  have 
been  Mary  than  Elizabeth ;  I  would  rather  have 
been  Mary,  with  all  her  faults,  frailties,  and  mis- 
14 


210  QUEE1S    ELIZABETH.  ^ 

fortunes, — nil  her  power  of  engaging  hearts,—  be- 
trayed by  her  own  soft  nature,  and  the  vile  or 
fierce  passions  of  the  men  around  her,  to  die  on  a 
scaffold,  with  the  meekness  of  a  saint  and  tho 
courage  of  a  heroine,  with  those  at  her  side  who 
would  willingly  have  bled  for  her, — than  I  would 
have  been  that  heartless  flirt,  Elizabeth,  surround- 
ed by  the  oriental  servility,  the  lip  and  knee  hom- 
age of  her  splendid  court ;  to  die  at  last  on  her 
palace  floor,  like  a  crushed  wasp — sick  of  her  own 
very  selfishness — torpid,  sullen,  and  despairing, — 
without  one  friend  near  her,  without  one  heart  in 
the  wide  world  attached  to  her  bv  affection  or 
gratitude. 

There  is  more  true  and  earnest  feeling  in  some 
little  verses  written  by  Eonsard  on  the  unhappy 
Queen  of  Scots,  than  in  all  the  elegant,  fanciful, 
but  extravagant  flattery  of  Elizabeth's  poets.  After 
just  mentioning  the  English  Queen,  whom  he  de- 
spatches in  a  single  line, — 

Je  vis  leur  belle  reine,  norms' te  et  virtueuse ; 
he  thus  dwells  on  the  charms  of  Mary : 

Je  vis  des  Ecossais  la  Heine  sage  et  belle, 

Qui  de  corps  et  d'esprits  ressemble  une  immortelle, 

J'approchai  de  ses  yeux,  mais  bien  de  deux  soleils, 

Deux  soleils  de  beaute",  qui  n'ont  point  leurs  pareils, 

Je  les  vis  larmoyer  d'une  claire  rose'e, 

Je  vis  d'un  clair  crystal  paupiere  arrose'e, 

Se  souvenaut  de  France,  et  du  sceptre  laisse, 

Et  de  son  premier  feu,  comme  un  songe 


QUEEN   OF   SCOTS — RONSARD.      211 

^  nd  when  Mary  was  a  prisoner,  he  dedicated  to 
her  a  whole  book  of  poems,  in  which  he  celebrates 
Lcr  with  a  warmth,  the  more  delightful  that  it  was 
disinterested.  He  thanks  her  for  selecting  his 
poems  to  amuse  her  solitary  hours,  and  adds  feel- 
ing1^— 

Car,  je  ne  veux  en  ce  monde  choisir 

Plus  grand  honneur  que  vous  donner  plaisir ! 

Mary  did  not  leave  her  courteous  poet  unre- 
warded. She  contrived,  though  a  prisoner,  to 
send  him  a  casket  containing  two  thousand  crowns, 
and  a  vase,  on  which  was  represented  Mount  Par- 
nassus, and  a  flying  Pegasus,  with  this  inscrip- 
tion :- — 

A  Ronsard,  1'Apollon  de  la  source  des  Muses. 

No  one  understood  better  than  Mary  the  value 
of  a  compliment  from  a  beauty,  and  a  queen  ;  had 
she  bestowed  more  precious  favors  with  equal 
effect  and  discrimination,  her  memory  had  escaped 
some  disparagement.  Ronsard,  we  are  told,  was 
sufficiently  a  poet  to  value  the  inscription  on  his 
vase  more  than  the  gold  in  the  casket. 

Apropos  to  Ronsard :  the  history  of  his  loves  is 
so  whimsical  and  so  truly  French,  that  it  must 
claim  a  place  here. 

Yet  now  J  am  upon  French  ground,  I  may  as 
well  take  the  giant's  advice,  and  "  begin  at  the  be- 
ginning." *  It  seems  at  first  view  unaccountable 

*  B61ier,  mon  ami!  Commencez  par  le  commencement! 

COUNT  HAMILTON. 


812  D|ANE    DE    POICTIERS. 

that  France,  which  has  produced  so  jnany  remark- 
able women,  should  scarce  exhibit  one  poetical 
heroine  of  great  or  popular  interest,  since  its  lan- 
guage and  literature  assumed  their  present  form 
not  one  who  has  been  rendered  illustrious  or  dear  to 
us  by  the  praises  of  a  poet  lover.  The  celebrity  of 
celebrated  French  women  is,  in  truth,  very  anti- 
poetical.  The  memory  of  the  kiss  which  Mar- 
guerite d'Ecosse  *  gave  to  Alain  Chartier,  has  long 
survived  the  verses  he  wrote  in  her  praise.  Clem- 
ent Marot,  the  court  poet  of  Francis  the  First,  was 
the  lover  or  rather  one  of  the  lovers  of  Diana  of 
Poictiers,  (mistress  to  the  Dauphin,  afterwards 
Henry  the  Second.)  She  jvas  confessedly  the  most 
beautiful  and  the  most  abandoned  woman  of  her  time. 
Marot  could  hardly  have  expected  to  find  her  a 
paragon  of  constancy ;  yet  he  laments  her  fickle- 
ness, as  if  it  had  touched  his  heart. 

A  DIANE. 

Puisque  de  vous  je  n'ai  autre  visage, 
Je  ra'en  vais  rendre  hermite  en  un  desert, 
Pour  prier  Dieu,  si  un  autre  vous  sert, 

Qu'autant  que  moi  en  votre  honneur  soit  sage. 

Adieu !  Amour !  adieu,  gentil  corsage ! 

Adieu  ce  teint !  adieu  ces  friands  yeux ! 
Je  n'ai  pas  eu  'de  vous  grand  avantage, — 

Un  moins  airaant  aura  peut-etre  mieux. 

*  'La  gcntille  Marguerite,"  the  unhappy  wife  of  Louis  th» 
Eleventh.  Beautiful,  accomplished,  and  in  the  very  spring  o» 
Sfe,  she  died  a  victim  to  the  detestable  characte.  »f  her  husband 
VVhen  one  of  ter  attendants  spoke  of  hope  and  life,  the  Queon 


DIANE    DE    POICTIERS.  215 

Jn  a  naison  of  mere  vanity  and  profligacy,  the 
transition  from  love  (if  love  it  be)  to  hatred  and 
malignity,  is  not  uncommon — as  Spenser  savs  so 
beautifully, 

Such  love  might  never  long  endure, 
However  gay  and  goodly  be  the  style, 
That  dothe  ill  cause  or  evil  end  enure : 
For  Virtue  is  the  hand  that  bindeth  hearts  most  sure! 

From  being  the  lady's  lover,  Marot  became  her 
satirist  ;  instead  of  chansons  in  praise  of  her  beauty, 
he  circulated  the  most  biting  and  insufferable  epi- 
grams on  her  person  and  character.  We  are  told 
by  one,  who,  I  presume,  speaks  avec  connaissance 
defait,  that  a  woman's  revenge 

Is  like  the  tiger's  spring, 
Deadly  and  quick,  and  crushing. 

Diana  was  a  libelled  beauty,  all-powerful  and  un- 
principled. Marot,  in  some  moments  of  gayety 
and  overflowing  confidence,  had  confessed  to  her 
that  he  had  eaten  meat  on  a  "jour  maigre:"  he 
had  better  in  those  days  have  committed  all  the 
seven  deadly  sins  ;  and  when  the  lady  revealed  his 
unlucky  confession  and  denounced  him  as  a  heretic, 
he  was  immediately  imprisoned.  Instead,  however, 
of  being  depressed  by  his  situation,  or  moved  to 
make  any  concession,  he  published  from  his  prison 
a  most  ludicrous  lampoon  on  his  ci-devant  mis- 

turniiig  from  her  with  an  expression  of  deep  disgust,  exclaimed 
with  a  last  effort,  "  Fi  de  la  vie !  ne  m'en  parlez  plus !"— and  ex- 
pired. 


214  DIANE   DE   POICTIERS. 

tress,  of  which  the  burden  was,  "  Prenez  le,  il  a 
mange  le  lard  !  "  He  afterwards  made  his  escape, 
and  took  refuge  in  the  court  of  Renee,  Duchess  of 
Ferrara;  and  though  subsequently  recalled  to 
France,  he  continued  to  pursue  Diana  with  the 
most  bitter  satire,  became  a  second  time  a  fugitive, 
partly  on  her  account,  and  died  in  exile  and  pov- 
erty.* 

Marot  has  been  called  the  French  Chaucer. 
He  resembles  the  English  poet  in  liveliness  of 
fancy,  picturesque  imagery,  simplicity  of  expres- 
sion, and  satirical  humor ;  but  he  has  these  merits 
in  a  far  less  degree  ;  and  in  variety  of  genius, 
pathos,  and  power,  is  immeasurably  his  inferior. 

Ronsard,  to  whom  I  at  length  return,  was  the 
successor  of  Marot.  In  his  time,  the  Italian  son- 
netteers,  as  Petrarch,  Bembo,  Sanazzaro,  were  the 
prevailing  models,  and  classical  pedantry  the  pre- 
vailing taste.  Ronsard,  having  filled  his  mind  with 
Greek  and  learning,  determined  to  be  a  poet,  and 

*  At  Althorp,  the  seat  of  Lord  Spenser,  there  is  a  most  curi- 
ous picture  of  Diana  of  Poictiers,  once  in  the  Crawford  collec- 
tion :  it  is  a  small  half-length ;  the  features  are  fair  and  regular; 
the  hair  is  elaborately  dressed  with  a  profusion  of  jewels ;  but 
there  is  no  drapery  whatever,  except  a  curtain  behind:  round 
the  head  is  the  legend  from  the  forty-second  Psalm,— "  Commo  le 
cerf  braie  apres  le  decours  des  eaues,  ainsi  brait  mon  sune  apres 
toi,  0  Dieu  !  "  which  is  certainly  a  most  extraordinary  and  pro- 
fane application.  In  the  days  of  Diana  of  Poictiers,  Marofc  had 
composed  a  version  of  the  Psalms,  then  very  popular.  It  was 
the  fashion  to  sing  them  to  dance  and  song  tunes;  and  the 
eourtiors  and  beauties  had  each  their  favorite  psalm,  which 
served  as  a  kind  of  devise.  This  may  explain  the  very  singulai 
Inscription  on  this  very  singular  picture. 


RONSARD'S  CASSANDRE — MARIE.        215 

looked  about  for  a  mistress  to  be  the  object  of  his 
songs  :  for  a  poet  without  a  mistress  was  then  an 
unheard-of  anomaly.  He  fixed  upon  a  beautiful 
woman  of  Blois,  named  Cassandre,  whose  Greek 
appellative,  it  is  said,  was  her  principal  attraction 
in  his  fancy.  To  her  he  addressed  about  two  hun- 
dred and  twenty  sonnets,  in  a  style  so  lofty  and 
pedantic,  stuffed  with  such  hard  names  and  philo- 
sophical allusions,  that  the  fair  Cassandre  must 
have  been  as  wise  as  her  namesake,  the  daughter 
of  Priam,  to  have  comprehended  her  own  praises. 
Rousard's  next  love  was  more  interesting.  Her 
name  was  Marie :  she  was  beautiful  and  kind :  the 
poet  really  loved  her ;  and  consequently,  we  find 
him  occasionally  descending  from  his  heights  of 
affectation  and  scholarship,  to  the  language  of 
truth,  nature,  and  tenderness.  Marie  died  young ; 
and  among  Ronsard's  most  admired  poems  are  two 
or  three  little  pieces  written  after  her  death.  As 
his  works  are  not  commonly  met  with,  I  give  one 
as  a  specimen  of  his  style  : — 

EPITAPHE   DE  MARIE. 

Ci  reposent  les  os  de  la  belle  Maine, 
Qui  me  fit  pour  un  jour  quitter  mon  Vendomois, 
Qui  m'echauffa  le  sang  au  plus  verd  de  mes  mois; 
Qui  fut  toute  mon  tout,  mon  bien,  et  mon  envie. 

En  sa  tombe  repose  honneur  et  courtoisie, 

Et  la  jeune  beaute"  qu'en  1'amo  je  sentois. 

Et  le  flambeau  d'Amoui',  ses  traits  et  son  carquoia, 

Et  ensemble  mon  coaur,  mes  pen^es  et  ma  vie. 


216  RONSARD'S   MARIE — HELENK. 

Tu  es,  belle  Angevine,*  un  bel  astro  des  cienx; 
Les  anges,  tons  ravis,  se  paissent  de  tes  yeux, 
La  terre  te  regrette,  0  beaute"  sans  seconde ! 

Maintenant  tu  es  vive,  et  je  suis  mort  d'annui, 

Malheureux  qui  se  fie  en  1'attcnte  d'autrui: 

Trois  amis  m'ont  trompe", — toi,  1'araour,  et  le  raonde. 

Ronsard  had  by  this  time  acquired  a  reputation 
which  eclipsed  that  of  all  his  contemporaries.  He 
was  caressed  and  patronized  by  Charles  the  Ninth, 
(of  hateful  memory,)  who,  like  Nero,  exhibited  the 
revolting  combination  of  a  taste  for  poetry  and  the 
fine  arts,  with  the  most  sanguinary  and  depraved 
disposition.  Ronsard,  having  lost  his  Marie,  was 
commanded  by  Catherine  de'  Medicis  to  select  a 
mistress  from  among  the  ladies  of  her  court,  to  be 
the  future  object  of  his  tuneful  homage.  He  politely 
left  her  Majesty  to  choose  for  him,  prepared  to  fall 
in  love  duly  at  the  royal  behest :  and  Catherine 
pointed  out  Helene  de  Surgeres,  one  of  her  maids 
of  honor,  as  worthy  to  be  the  second  Laura  of  a 
second  Petrarch.  The  docile  poet,  with  zealous 
obedience,  warbled  the  praises  of  Helene  for  the 
rest  of  his  life.  He  also  consecrated  to  her  a  foun- 
tain near  his  Chateau  in  the  Vendomois,  which  has 
popularly  preserve^  her  name  and  fame.  It  is  still 
known  as  the  "  Fontaine  d'Helene." 

Helene  was  more  witty  than  beautiful,  ard, 
though  vain  of  the  celebrity  she  had  acquired  in 
the  verses  of  Ronsard,  she  either  disliked  him  in  the 

*  Ronsard  was  a  native  of  the  Vendomois,  and  Marie,  of 
injou. 


HELENE.  217 

character  of  a  lover,  or  was  one  of  those  lofty 
ladies 

Who  hate  to  have  their  dignity  profaned 
With  any  relish  of  an  earthly  thought.* 

She  desired  the  Cardinal  du  Perron  would  request 
Ronsard  (in  her  name)  to  prefix  an  epistle  to  the 
odes  and  sonnets  addressed  to  her,  assuring  the 
world  that  this  poetical  love  had  been  purely  Pla- 
tonic. "  Madam,"  said  the  Cardinal,  "  you  had 
better  give  him  leave  to  prefix  your  picture."  f 

I  presume  my  fair  and  gentle  readers  (I  shall 
have  none,  I  am  sure,  who  are  not  one  or  the  other, 
or  both,)  are  as  tired  as  myself  of  all  this  affecta- 
tion, and  glad  to  turn  from  it  to  the  interest  of  pas- 
sion and  reality. 

"  There  is  not,"  says  Cowley,  "  so  great  a  lie  to 
be  found  iri  any  poet,  as  the  vulgar  conceit  of  men, 
that  lying  is  essential  to  good  poetry."  On  the  con- 
trary, where  there  is  not  truth,  there  is  nothing — 

Kien  n'  est  beau  que  le  vrai, — le  vrai  seul  est  amiable ! 
***** 

While  the  Italian  school  of  amatory  verse  was 
flourishing  in  France,  Spain,  and  England,  almost 
to  the  extinction  of  originality  in  this  style,  the 
brightest  light  of  Italian  poesy  had  arisen,  and  waa 
shining  with  a  troubled  splendor  over  that  land 
of  song.  How  swiftly  at  the  thought  does  imagina^ 

*  Ben  Jonson. 

t  V  Bayle  Dictionaris  Historique. — Pierre  de  Ronsard  wa?  Ixxrn 
m  1524,  and  di<«d  in  1585. 


218  LEONORA   D*ESTE. 

tion  shoot  "  like  a  glancing  star,"  over  the  wide  ex- 
panse of  sea  and  land,  and  through  a  long  interval 
of  sad  and  varied  years !  I  am  again  standing  with- 
in the  porch  of  the  church  of  San  Onofrio,  looking 
down  upon  the  little  slab  in  its  dark  corner,  which 
covers  the  bones  of  TASSO. 


CHAPTER  XVIIL 
LEONORA  D'ESTE. 

LEONORA  D'ESTE,  a  princess  of  the  proudest 
house  m  Europe,  might  have  wedded  an  emperor, 
and  have  been  forgotten.  The  idea,  true  or  false, 
that  she  it  was  who  broke  the  heart  and  frenzied 
the  brain  of  Tasso,  has  glorified  her  to  future  ages  ; 
has  given  her  a  fame,  something  like  that  of  the 
Greek  of  old,  who  bequeathed  his  name  to  immor- 
tality, by  firing  the  grandest  temple  of  the  uni- 
verse. 

The  question  of  Tasso's  attachment  to  the  Prin- 
cess Leonora,  is,  I  believe,  set  at  rest  by  the  acute 
researches  and  judicious  reasoning  of  M.  Ginguen6, 
and  those  who  have  followed  in  his  steps.  A  body 
of  circumstantial  evidence  has  been  collected, 
which  would  not  only  satisfy  a  court  of  love — but 
a  court  of  law,  with  a  Lord  Chancellor,  to  boot, 


D'ESTE.  219 


*  perpending"  at  the  head  of  it.  That  which  was 
once  regarded  as  a  romance,  which  we  wished  to 
believe,  if  we  could,  is  now  an  established  fact, 
which  we  cannot  disbelieve  if  we  would. 

No  poet  perhaps  ever  owed  so  much  to  female 
influence  as  Tasso,  or  wrote  so  much  under  the  in- 
toxicating inspiration  of  love  and  beauty.  He  paid 
most  dearly  for  such  inspiration  :  and  yet  not  too 
dearly.  The  high  tone  of  sentiment,  the  tender- 
ness, and  the  delicacy  which  pervade  all  his  poems, 
which  prevail  even  in  his  most  voluptuous  descrip- 
tions, and  which  give  him  such  a  decided  superior- 
ity over  Ariosto,  cannot  be  owing  to  any  change  of 
manners  or  increase  of  refinement  produced  by 
the  lapse  of  a  few  years.  It  may  be  traced  to  the 
tender  influence  of  two  elegant  women.  He  for 
many  years  read  the  cantos  of  the  Gerusalemme, 
as  he  composed  them,  to  the  Princesses  Lucretia 
and  Leonora,  both  of  whom  he  admired,  —  one  of 
whom  he  adored. 

Au  reste—the  kiss,  which  he  is  said  to  have  im- 
printed on  the  lips  of  Leonora  in  a  transport  of 
frenzy,  as  weH  as  the  idea  that  she  was  the  primary 
cause  of  his  insanity  and  of  his  seven  years'  impris- 
onment at  St.  Anne's,  rest  on  no  authority  worthy 
of  credit  ;  yet  it  is  not  less  certain  that  she  was  the 
object  of  his  secret  and  fervent  admiration,  and 
that  this  hopeless  passion  conspired,  with  many 
other  causes,  to  fever  his  irritable  temperament  and 
unsettle  his  imagination,  beyond  that  "  fine  mad- 
ness," which  we  are  told  ought  "  to  possess  the 
poet's  b^ain  " 


2*?0  LEONORA  D'ESTE. 

When  Tasso  first  visited  Ferrara,  in  15G5,  he 
was  just  one-and-twenty,  with  all  the  advantages 
which  a  fine  countenance,  a  majestic  figure,  (for  he 
was  tall  even  among  the  tallest,)  noble  birth,  and 
exceeding  talents  could  bestow:  he  was  already 
distinguished  as  the  author  of  the  Rinaldo,  his  ear- 
liest poem,  in  which  he  had  celebrated  (as  if  pro- 
phetically) the  Princesses  d'Este, — and  ehieliy 
Leonora. 

Lucrezia  Estense,  e  1'  altra  i  cui  crin  d'  oro, 
Lacci  e  reti  saran  del  casto  araore.* 

When  Tasso  was  first  introduced  to  her  in  hei 
brother's  court,  Leonora  was  in  her  thirtieth  year , 
a  disparity  of  age  which  is  certainly  no  argument 
against  the  passion  she  inspired.  For  a  young  man, 
at  his  first  entrance  into  life,  -to  fall  in  love  ambi- 
tiously— with  a  woman,  for  instance,  who  is  older 
than  himself,  or  with  one  who  is,  or  ought  to  be, 
unattainable, — is  a  common  occurrence.  Tasso, 
from  his  boyish  years,  had  been  the  sworn  servant 
of  beauty.  He  tells  us,  in  grave  prose,  "  che  la 
sua  giovanezza  fu  tutta  sotto-posta  all'  amorose  leg- 
gi;"t  but  he  was  also  refined,  even  to  fastidious- 
ness, in  his  intercourse  with  women.  He  had 
formed,  in  his  own  poetical  mind,  the  most  exalted 
idea  of  what  a  female  ought  to  be,  and  unfortu- 

*  See  the  Rinaldo,  c.  8. 

t From  my  very  birth 

My  soul  was  drunk  with  love,  &c 

LAMENT  OF  TASSO. 


LEONORA  D'ESTE.  22) 

nately,  she  who  first  realized  all  his  dreams  of  per- 
fection, was  a  Princess — "  there  seated  where  he 
durst  not  soar."  Leonora  was  still  eminently 
lovely,  in  that  softr  artless,  unobtrusive  style  of 
beauty,  Avhich  is  charming  in  itself,  and  in  a  prin- 
cess irresistible,  from  its  contrast  with  the  loftiness 
of  her  station  and  the  trappings  of  her  rank.  Her 
complexion  was  extremely  fair ;  her  features  small 
and  regular ;  and  the  form  of  her  head  peculiarly 
graceful,  if  I  may  judge  from  a  fine  medallion  I 
once  saw  of  her  in  Italy.  Ill  health,  and  her  early 
acquaintance  with  the  sorrows  of  her  unfortunate 
mother,  had  given  to  her  countenance  a  languid 
and  pensive  cast,  and  sicklied  all  the  natural  bloom 
of  her  complexion  ;  but  "  Paleur,  qui  marque  une 
ame  tendre,  a  bien  son  prix : "  so  Tasso  thought ; 
and  this  "  vago  Pallore,"  which  vanquishes  the  rose, 
and  makes  the  dawn  ashamed  of  her  blushes,"  he 
has  frequently  and  beautifully  celebrated  ;  as  in 
the  pretty  Madrigal — 

Vita  della  mia  Vita ! 
0  Rosa  scolorta  I  &c. 

and  in  those  graceful  lines, 

Languidetta  belta  vinceva  amore,  &c. 

applicable  only  to  Leonora.  Her  eyes  were  blue  ; 
her  mouth  of  peculiar  beauty,  both  in  form  and 
expression.  In  the  seventh  Sonnet,  "  Bella  6  la 
•lonna  mia,"  he  says  it  was  the  most  lovely  featuro 


222  LEONORA    D*ESTE. 

in  her  face ;  in  another  still  finer,*  he  styles  thif 
exquisite  mouth  "  a  crimson  shell " — 

Purpnrea  conca,  in  cui  si  nutre 
Candor  di  perle  elette  e  pellegrine ; 

and  he  concludes  it  with  one  of  those  disguises 
under  which  he  was  accustomed  to  conceal  Leo- 
nora's name. 

E  di  si  degno  cor  tuo  stra  LEONORA. 

She  was  negligent  in  her  dress,  and  studious  and 
retired  in  her  habits,  seldom  joining  in  the  amuse- 
ments of  her  brother's  court,  then  the  gayest  and 
most  magnificent  in  Italy,  f  Her  accomplished  and 
unhappy  mother,  Renee  of  France,^  had  early 
instilled  into  her  mind  a  love  of  literature,  and 
especially  of  poetry.  She  was  passionately  fond 
of  music,  and  sang  admirably.  One  of  Tasso's 
most  beautiful  sonnets  was  composed  on  some 
occasion  when  her  physician  had  forbidden  her  to 
sing.  He  who  had  so  often  felt  the  magic  of  that 
enchanting  voice,  thus  describes  its  power  and 
laments  his  loss : — 

Ahi,  ben  6  reo  destin,  ch'  invidia,  e  toglie 
Almondo  il  suon  de'  vostri  chiari  accenti, 

*  Rose,  che  1'  arte  invidiosa  mira,  &c. 

t  Alteremente  umile    ' 
Te  chiundi  ne'  tuoi  cari  alti  soggiornl. 

tThe  daughter  of  Louis  XII.  She  was  closely  imprisoneq 
during  twelve  years,  on  suspicion  of  favoring  the  early  re- 
formers. 


LEONORA   D'ESTE.  228 


Onde  addivien  che  le  terrene  <genti 

De'  maggior  pre^i,  impoveriscaS^jpoglie.' ?*;'', ' 

Ch'  ogni  nebbia  mortal,  che  '1  senso  accoglie,  ""' 
Sgombrar  potea  dalle  piu  fosche  menti 
L'  armoiria  dolce,  e  bei  pensieri  ardenti 
Spirar  d'  onore,  e  pure  e  nobil  voglie. 

Ma  non  si  merta  qui  forse  cotanto : 

E  basta  ben  che  i  sereni  ocelli,  e  '1  rise. 
N'  infiammin  d'  un  piacer  celeste  e  santo 

Nulla  fora  piu  beUo  il  Paradiso, 

Se  '1  mondo  udisse,  in  voi  d'  angelo  il  canto, 
Siccome  vede  in  voi  d'  angelo  il  viso. 

•'  O  cruel — 0  envious  destiny,  that  hast  deprived 
the  world  of  those  delicious  accents,  that  hast  made 
earth  poor  in  what  was  dearest  and  sweetest !  No 
cloud  ever  gathered  over  the  gloomiest  mind, 
which  the  melody  of  that  voice  could  not  disperse  ; 
it  breathed  but  to  inspire  noble  thoughts  and  chaste 
desires. — But,  no  !  it  was  more  than  mortals  could 
deserve  to  possess.  Those  soft  eyes,  that  smile 
were  enough  to  inspire  a  sacred  and  sweet  delight. 
— Nor  would  Paradise  any  longer  excel  this  earth, 
if  in  your  voice  we  heard  an  angel  sing,  as  wo 
behold  an  angel's  beauty  in  your  face ! " 

Leonora,  to  a  sweet-toned  voice,  added  a  gift, 
which,  unless  thus  accompanied,  loses  half  its 
value,  and  almost  all  its  charm — she  spoke  well; 
and  her  eloquence  was  so  persuasive,  that  we  are 
told  she  had  power  to  move  her  brother  Alphonso, 
when  none  else  could.  Tasso  says  most  poetically, 


2'2t  LEONORA    D*ESTE. 

E  T  aura  del  parlar  cortese  e  saggio, 
Fra  le  rose  spirar,  s'  udia  sovente ; 

— meaning — for  to  translate  literally  is  scarce 
possible, — that  "  eloquence  played  round  ler  lips, 
like  the  zephyr  breathing  over  roses." 

"  I  (he  adds,)  beholding  a  celestial  beauty  walk 
the  earth,  closed  my  eyes  in  terror,  exclaiming,  O 
rashness  !  O  folly  !  for  any  to  dare  to  gaze  on  such 
charms !  Alas !  I  quickly  perceived  that  this  was 
my  least  peril.  My  heart  was  touched  through  my 
ears,  her  gentle  wisdom  penetrated  deeper  than 
her  beauty  could  reach." 

With  what  emotions  must  a  young  and  ardent 
poet  have  listened  to  his  own  praises  from  a 
beautiful  mouth,  thus  sweetly  gifted !  and  it  may 
be  added  that  Leonora's  eloquence,  and  the  in- 
fluence she  possessed  over  her  brother,  were  ever 
employed  in  behalf  of  the  deserving  and  un- 
fortunate. The  good  people  of  Ferrara  had  such 
an  exalted  idea  of  her  piety  and  benevolence,  that 
when  an  earthquake  caused  a  terrible  inundation 
of  the  Po,  and  the  destruction  of  the  surrounding 
villages,  they  attributed  the  safety  of  their  city 
entirely  to  her  prayers  and  intercession. 

Leonora  then  was  not  unworthy  of  her  illustrious 
conquest,  either  in  person,  heart,  or  mind.  To  be 
summoned  daily  into  the  presence  of  a  Princess 
thus  beautiful  and  amiable,  to  read  aloud  his  verses 
to  her,  to  hear  his  own  praises  from  her  lips,  to 
Dask  in  her  approving  smiles,  to  associate  with  her 
in  her  retirement,  to  behold  her  in  all  the  graceful 


LEONORA  D'ESTE.  225 

simplicity  of  her  familiar  life, — was  a  dangerous 
situation  for  Tasso,  and  surely  not  less  so  for 
Leonora  herself.  That  she  was  aware  of  his  ad- 
miration, and  perfectly  understood  his  sentiments, 
and  that  a  mysterious  intelligence  existed  between 
them,  consistent  with  the  utmost  reverence  on  his 
part,  and  the  most  perfect  delicacy  and  dignity  on 
hers,  is  apparent  from  the  meaning  and  tendency  of 
innumerable  passages  scattered  through  his  minor 
poems — too  significant  in  their  application  to  be  mis- 
taken. Though  that  application  be  not  avowed,  and 
even  disguised — the  very  disguise,  when  once  de- 
tected, points  to  the  object.  Leonora  knew,  as  well 
as  her  lover,  that  a  princess  "  was  no  love-mate  for 
a  bard."  She  knew  far  better  than  her  lover,  until 
lie  too  had  been  taught  by  wretched  experience, 
the  haughty  and  implacable  temper  of  her  brother 
Alphonso,  who  never  was  known  to  brook  an 
injury  or  forgive  an  offender.  She  must  have  re- 
membered too  well  the  twelve  years'  imprisonment 
and  the  narrow  escape  from  death,  of  her  unfortu- 
nate mother  for  a  less  cause.  She  was  of  a  timid 
and  reserved  nature,  increased  by  the  extreme 
delicacy  of  her  constitution.  Her  hand  had  fre- 
quently been  sought  by  princes  and  nobles,  whom 
she  had  uniformly  rejected  at  the  risk  of  displeas- 
ing her  brother ;  and  the  eyes  of  a  jealous  court 
were  upon  her.  Tasso,  on  the  other  hand,  was 
imprudent,  hot-headed,  fearless,  ardently  attached. 
For  both  their  sakes,  it  was  necessary  for  Leonora 
to  be  guarded  and  reserved,  unless  she  would  have 
15 


226  LEONORA  D'ESTE. 

made  herself  the  fable  of  all  Italy.  And  in  what 
glowing  verse  has  Tasso  described  all  the  delicious 
pain  of  such  a  situation  !  now  proud  of  his  fetters, 
now  execrating  them  in  despair.  In  allusion  to 
his  ambitious  passion,  he  is  Phaeton,  Icarus,  Tan- 
talus, Ixion. 

Se  d'  Icaro  leggesti  e  di  Fetonte,  &c. 

But  though  presumption  flung  to  ruin  Icarus  and 
Phaeton,  did  not  the  power  of  love  bring  even 
Dian  dc  wn  "  from  her  amazing  height  ?  " 

E  che  non  puote 

Amor,  che  con  catena  il  ciel  unisce? 
Egli  giii  trae  delle  celeste  rote 
Di  terrana  belta  Diana  accesa, 
E  d'Ida  il  bel  Fancml*  al'  ciel  rapisce. 

This  at  least  is  clearly  significant,  however 
poetical  the  allusions ;  but  what  a  world  of  passion 
and  of  meaning  breathes  through  the  Sonnet 
which  he  has  entitled  "  The  constrained  Silence," 
("  11  Silenzio  Imposto") 

"  She  is  content  that  I  should  love  her  ;  yet,  0 
what  hard  restraint  of  galling  silence  has  she  im- 
posed.!" 

Vuol  che  T  ami  costei ;  ma  duro  freno 
Mi  pone  ancor  d'  aspro  silenzio;  or  quale 
Avrb  da  lei,  se  non  conosce  il  male 
0  medecina,  e  refrigerio  almeno? 


*  Ganymede. 


LEONORA  D'ESTE.  2? 7 

Tacer  ben  posso,  e  tacerb !  ch'  io  toglia 
Sangue  alle  piaghe,  e  luce  al  vivo  foco 
Non  brami  gia;  questa  e  impossibil  voglia 
Troppo  spinse  pungent!  a  dentro  i  colpi, 
E  troppo  ardore  accolse  in  picciol  loco: 
S'  apparira,  natura,  e  se  n'  iucolpi.* 

"  Yes,  I  can,  I  will  keep  silence ;  but  to  com- 
mand that  the  wound  shall  not  bleed  nor  the  fire 
burn,  is  to  command  impossibility.  Too,  too  deep 
hath  the  blow  been  struck ;  too  ardently  glows  the 
flame ;  and  if  betrayed,  the  fault  is  in  nature — not 
in  me  ! " 

And  again,  what  can  be  more  exquisitely  tender, 
more  beautiful  in  its  fervent  simplicity  of  expres- 
sion, than  the  effusion  which  follows  ?  How  miser- 
ably does  an  adequate  pros£  translation  halt  after 
the  glowing  poetry,  the  rhythmical  music,  the 
14  linked  sweetness  "  of  the  original ! 

Io  non  cedo  in  amar,  Donn^  gentile 

A'  chi  mostra  di  fuor  1'  interno  affetto ; 
Perch  e  '1  mio  si  nasconda  in  mezzo  '1  petto, 
Ne  co'  fior  s'  apra  del  mio  nuovo  Aprile, 

Co'  vaghi  sguardi,  e  col  sembiante  umile, 
Co'  detti  sparsi  in  variando  aspetto 
Altri  si  veggia  al  vostro  amor  soggetto, 
E  co'  sospiri,  e  con  leggiadro  stile. 

E  jtiando  gela  il  cielo,  e  quando  infiamma, 
E  quando  parte  il  sole,  e  quando  riede, 
Vi  segua;  come  il  can  selvaggia  damma. 

*  Sonnet  37. 


828  LEONORA  D'ESTE 

cJh'  io  se  nel  cor  vi  cerco,  altri  nol  vede, 
E  sol  mi  vanto  di  nascosa  fiamma, 
E  sol  mi  glorio  di  secreta  fede.* 

"  I  yield  not  in  love,  O  gentlest  lady !  to  those 
who  dare  to  show  their  love  more  openly,  though  1 
conceal  it  within  the  centre  of  my  heart,  nor  suffer 
it  to  spread  forth  like  the  other  flowers  of  my 
spring.  Let  others  boast  themselves  subjects  of 
love  for  your  sake,  and  slaves  of  your  beauty,  with 
admiring  looks,  with  humble  aspect,  with  sighs, 
with  eloquent  words,  with  lofty  verse  !  whether  the 
winter  freeze  or  the  summer  burn, — at  set  of  sun, 
and  when  he  laughs  again  in  heaven,  let  them  still 
pursue  you,  as  dogs  the  shy  and  timid  deer.  But  1 
— O,  I  seek  you  in  my  own  heart,  where  none  else 
behold  you!  My  hidden  love  be  my  only  boast; 
my  secret  faith,  my  own  glory  ! " 
*  Without  multiplying  quotations,  which  would 
extend  this  sketch  from  pages  into  volumes,  it  is 
sufficient  to  trace  through  Tasso's  verses  the  little 
incidents  which  varied  this  romantic  intercourse 
The  frequent  indisposition  of  Leonora,  her  absence 
when  she  went  to  visit  her  brother,  the  Cardinal 
d'Este,  at  Tivoli,  form  the  subjects  of  several  beau- 
tiful  little  poems ;  as  the  Sonnets 

Dianzi  al  vostro  languir,  &c. 

Donna!  poichfc  fortuna  empia  mi  nega 

Seguirvi,  &c. 

Al  nobil  colle,  ove  in  antichi  marmi 
Di  Greco  mano  opre  famose  ammira 
Vaga  LEONORA  il  mio  pensier  mi  gira 

*  Sonnet  29. 


LEONORA   DESTE.  22& 

Here  ht  names  her  expressly ;  while  in  the  little 
lament — 

Lunge  da  voi,  ben  mio ! 

Non  ho  vita  ne  core !  e  non  son  io 

Non  sono,  oime !  non  sono 

Quel  cli'  altra  volta  fui,  ma  uii  Ombra  mesta, 

Un  lagrimevol  suono,  &c. 

— the  tone  is  too  passionate  to  allow  of  it.  He 
finds  her  looking  up  one  night  at  the  stars ;  it  11 
sufficient  to  inspire  that  beautiful  little  song, 

Mentre,  mia  stella,  miri 

I  bei  celesti  giri, 

II  cielo  esser  vorrei, 
Perche  negli  occhi  miei 
Fiso  tu  rivolgessi 

Le  tue  dolci  faville ; 

Io  vagheggiar  potessi 

Mille  bellezze  tue,  con  luci  mille !  * 

He  relates,  in  another  little  madrigal,  that  stand- 
ing alone  with  her  in  a  balcony,  he  chanced,  per- 
haps in  the  eagerness  of  conversation,  to  extend 
his  arm  on  hers.>  He  asks  pardon  for  the  freedom, 
and  she  replies  with  sweetness,  "  You  offended 
not  by  placing"your  arm  there,  but  by  withdrawing 
it."  This  little  speech  in  a  coquette  would  have 
been  sans  consequence:  from  such  a  woman  as 
Leonora,  it  spoke  volumes ;  and  her  lover  felt  it  so. 

*  I  am  toid  the  original  idea  is  in  Plato ;  prettier,  however, 
jhan  either,  was  the  speech  of  a  modern  lover,  whose  mistress 
vas  gazing  pensively  on  a  star :  "  Ne  la  regardez  pas  tant,  chert 
unie!— je  ne  puis  pas  te  la  donner!" 


230  LEONORA  D'ESTE. 

He  breaks  forth  in  a  rapture  at  the  tender  conde- 
scension, 

0  parolette  amorose,  &c. 

Then  comes  a  cloud,  but  whether  of  temper  oi 
jealousy,  we  know  not.  One  of  those  luckless 
trifles,  perhaps, 

— that  move 
Dissension  between  hearts  that  love. 

Tasso  accompanied  Lucrezia  d'Este,  then  Duchess 
of  Urbino,  to  her  villa  of  Castel  Durante,  where  he 
remained  for  some  time,  partaking  in  all  the 
amusements  of  her  gay  court,  without  once  seeing 
Leonora.  He  then  wrote  to  her,  and  the  letter 
fortunately  has  fyeen  preserved  entire. 

Though  guarded  in  expression,  it  is  throughout 
in  the  tone  of  a  lover  piqued,  and  yet  conscious 
that  he  has  himself  offended ;  and  seeking,  with  a 
sort  of  proud  humility,  the  reconciliation  on  which 
his  happiness  depends.  He  sends  her  a  sonnet, 
which  he  admits  is  "  far  unlike  the  elegant  effusions 
he  supposes  her  now  in  the  habit  of  receiving.  He 
begs  to  assure  her,  that  though  it  be  in  art  and  wit 
as  poor  as  he  is  himself  in  happiness,  yet  in  hia 
present  pitiable  condition,  he  could  do  no  better; 
(not  that  he  was  to  all  appearance  so  very  much  to 
be  pitied.)  He  adds,  '•  do  not  think,  however,  that 
in  this  vacancy  of  thought,  my  heart  has  found 
leisure  for  love.  The  Sonnet  is  merely  composed 
at  the  request  of  a  certain  poor  lover,  who  has  for 
some  time  past  quarrelled  with  his  mistress  and 


LEONORA   D  ESTK.  231 

now  no  longer  able  to  endure  his  hard  fortune,  is 
obliged  to  yield,  and  sue  for  grace  and  pardon." 
;t  11  quale  essendo  stato  un  pezzo  in  colera  con  la 
sua  donna,  ora  non  potendo  piti  bisogna  che  si 
renda  e  che  dhnanda  merce/'  The  Sonnet  en- 
closed in  this  letter,  ("  Sdegno,  debil  Guerrier,") 
appears  to  me  one  of  the  least  pleasing  in  the 
collection  ;  as  if  his  genius  and  his  feelings  were 
both  under  some  benumbing  influence  when  he 
wrote  it 

In  the  meanwhile,  there  was  a  report  that  Leo- 
nora was  about  to  be  united  to  a  foreign  Prince. 
Her  hand  had  been  demanded  of  her  brother  with 
the  usual  formalities.  On  this  occasion  Tasso 
wrote  the  fine  Canzone, 

Amor,  tu  vedi,  e  non  hai  duolo  o  sdegno,  &c 

"  Love !  canst  thou  look  on  without  grief  or 
indignation,  to  see  my  gentle  lady  bow  her  fair 
neck  to  the  yoke  of  another  ?" 

The  expression  in  the  6th  strophe  is  very  un- 
equivocal— 

"  Nor  let  my  mistress,  though  she  suffer  her 
bosom  to  be  invaded  by  a  newer  flame,  forget  the 
former  bond." 

Ne  la  mia  Donna,  perch 6  scaldi  il  petto 
Di  nuovo  amore,  nodo  anti^-o  sprezzi. 

In  one  of  his  Sonnets,  this  jealous  pain  la  yet 
more  strongly  expressed  : — 

lo  sparse,  ed  altri  miete !  &c. 


232  LEONORA  D'ESTE. 

"  I  sow,  another  reaps  !  I  water  a  lovely  blossom, 
unworthy,  alas !  to  tend  it ;  and  another  gathers 
the  fruit.  O  rage ! — yet  must  I,  through  coward 
fear,  lock  my  grief  within  my  own  bosom ! "  &c. 

This  intended  marriage  never  took  place ;  and 
Tasso,  relieved  from  his  fears,  and  restored  to  the 
confidence  of  Leonora,  was  again  comparatively 
blessed.  He  sometimes  ventured  to  name  her 
openly  in  his  poems, — as  in  the  little  Madrigal, 

Cantava  in  riva  al  fiume 

Tirse  di  LEONORA, 

E  rispondean  le  selve,  e  1'onde,  onora. 

Sometimes  he  disguised  her  name  as  1' Aurora, 
1'Aura,  Onor,  le  onora,* 

Dell'  Onor  simulacro  e  '1  nome  vostro. 

To  these  the  preceding  Madrigal  is  a  sort  of  key , 
or  the  better  to  conceal  the  true  object  of  his  adora- 
tion, he  carried  his  apparent  homage,  and  often  his 
poetical  gallantry,  to  the  feet  of  other  fair  ladies. 
Lucretia  d'Este,  the  elder  sister  of  Leonora ;  Tar- 
quinia  Molza,  a  beauty  and  a  poetess ;  and  Lucretia 
Bendidio,  another  most  accomplished  woman,  who 
numbered  all  the  poets  and  literati  of  Ferrara  in 
her  train,  frequently  inspired  him. 

*  The  Can/one  which  is,  I  believe,  esteemed  the  finest  of  thaw 
fcddrsssed  to  Leonora, 

Mentre  ch'  a  venerar  muovon  le  gente, 
onclucles  with  this  play  upon  her  name — 

Costei  LE  ONORA  col  bel  nome  santo. 

She  does  them  HONOR  by  her  sacred  name' 


LEONORA  D'ESTE.  235 

The  xtii/iaion  of  Lucre tia  Bendidio  reminds  me 
of  an  incident  in  Tasso's  early  life,  which,  besides 
being  characteristic  of  his  times  and  genius,  is  ex- 
tremely apropos  to  my  present  purpose  and  subject, 
In  the  days  of  his  first  enthusiasm  for  Lucretia, 
when  he  and  Guarini  were  rivals  for  her  favor, 
he  undertook  to  maintain,  publicly,  fifty  theses,  or 
difficult  questions,  in  the  "  Science  of  Love." 
These  "  Conclusion!  amorosi "  may  be  found  in  the 
third  volume  of  the  great  folio  edition  of  his  works ; 
and  some  of  them,  it  must  be  confessed,  afforded 
matter  for  much  amusing  and  edifying  discussion  ; 
for  instance, — "  Amore  esser  piu  nell'  amata  che  nell' 
amante,"  "  that  love  exists  rather  in  the  person  be- 
loved than  in  the  lover,"  which  seems  to  involve  a 
nice  distinction  in  metaphysics :  and  "  Nessuna  am- 
ata essere/o  poter  essere  ingrata," — "  that  no  woman 
truly  beloved,  is  or  can  be  ungrateful,"  which  in- 
volves a  mystery — and  a  truth.  And  the  48th, 
"  Se  piti  si  patisca,  o  non  ricevondo  alcun  premio, 
o  ricevendo  minor  del  desiderio," — "  whether  in 
love,  it  be  harder  to  receive  no  recompense  what- 
ever, or  less  than  we  desire," — a  question'  so  diffi- 
cult to  settle,  and  so  depending  on  individual  feel- 
ing, that  it  should  have  been  put  to  the  vote. 
Others  prove,  that  whatever  was  the  practice  in 
those  days,  the  received  «md  philosophical  theory  of 
love  was  sublime  enough  ;  for  instance,  the  14th, 
"  That  the  more  love  is  regulated  by  reason,  the 
more  noble  it  is  in  its  nature."  (Agreed  to,  with 
exceptions,  of  which  Tasso  himself  noight  furnisb 


234  LEONORA  D'ESTE. 

the  most  prominent.)  That  "compassion  in  oin 
sex  is  never  a  sign  of  recipiocal  affection,  but 
the  contrary."  (True,  generally.)  The  34th, 
"  That  the  respect  of  the  lover  for  her  he  loves  in- 
creases the  value  and  delight  of  every  favor  she 
grants  him."  (I  think  this  must  have  passed  un- 
disputed, or  by  acclamation.) 

The  38th  of  these  curious  propositions,  "  L'uomo 
in  sua  natura  amar  piti  intentamente  e  stabilmente 
die  la  donna," — that  "  men  by  nature  love  more 
intensely  and  more  permanently  than  women,"  was 
opposed  by  Signora  Orsolina  Cavaletta,  a  woman 
of  singular  accomplishments,  and  who  displayed,  in 
defence  of  her  sex,  so  much  wit  and  talent,  such 
various  learning,  ingenuity,  and  eloquence,  that  the 
young  disputant,  perhaps  placed  in  a  dilemma  be- 
tween his  honor  and  his  gallantry,  came  very 
hardly  off.  This  singular  exhibition  continued  for 
three  days,  and  was  conducted  with  infinite  solem- 
nity, in  presence  of  the  Court  and  the  Princesses ; 
all  the  nobility  and  even  the  superior  clergy  of 
Ferrara  crowded  to  witness  it ;  and  I  doubt  whether 
any  lecture  at  the  British  Institution,  or  mathemat- 
ics, or  electricity,  or  geology,  was  ever  listened  to 
by  our  fair  bas-bleus  with  half  as  much  interest  as 
Tasso's  "  Fifty  Theses  on  Love  "  excited  at  Fer- 
rara. 

Several  years  after  his  first  introduction  to  Leo- 
nora d'Este,  and  after  some  of  the  most  impassioned 
and  least  ambiguous  of  his  verses  were  written,  the 
Court  of  Ferrara  was  embellished  by  the  arrival  of 


LEONORA  D'ESTE.  285 

two  of  the  most  beautiful  women  in  all  Italy, — Le- 
onora di  San vi tali,  Countess  of  Scandiano,  then  a 
youthful  bride,  and  her  not  less  lovely  mother-in- 
law,  Barbara,  Countess  of  Sala.  The  Countess  of 
Scandiano  is  the  other  LEONORA  who  has  puzzled 
all  the  biographers,  from  the  open  gallantry  and 
avowed  adoration  with  which  Tasso  has  celebrated 
her  ;  but  in  strains, — O  how  different  from  the  sen- 
timent, the  veneration,  the  tenderness,  and  the 
mystery  which  breathe  through  his  verses  to  Leo- 
nora d'Este  !  A  third  Leonora  was  said  to  exist  in 
the  person  of  the  Countess's  favorite  attendant; 
but  this  is  untrue.  The  name  of  Leonora's  waiting- 
maid  was  Laura.  Tasso  has  addressed  several 
little  poems  to  her  ;  and  there  can  be  no  doubt  that 
she  occasionally  served  as  a  blind  to  his  real  attach- 
ment for  her  mistress.  The  countess  of  Scandia- 
no's  attendant  was  the  fair  Olympia,  to  whom  is 
Addressed  that  exquisitely  graceful  Canzone, 

0  con  le  Grazie  elette,  e  con  gli  amori. 

The  Duchess  of  Ferrara's  maid,  the  beautiful 
tavia  d'Arco,  and  even  her  dwarf,  are  also  immor- 
talized in  Tasso's  verses,  who  poured  forth  his 
courtly  gallantry  with  an  exhaustless  and  splendid 
prodigality,  fitting  their  praises  to  his  lyre,  as  if  it 
had  never  resounded  to  higher  themes. 

At  a  court  festival  given  by  the  Duke  Alphonso, 
in  honor  of  his  beautiful  and  illustrious  visitors,  the 
Countess  of  Sala  appeared  with  her  fine  hair 
wrreathed  round  her  head  in  the  form  of  a  coronet, 


236  LEONORA  D'ESTE. 

which  with  her  grand  style  of  beauty  and  majestic 
deportment,  gave  her  the  air  of  a  Juno.  The 
young  Countess  of  Scandiano,  on  the  other  hand, 
enchanted  by  her  Hebe-like  graces,  her  smiles,  and 
the  unequal  beauty  of  a  pouting  under-lip  ; — noth- 
ing was  talked  of  at  Ferrara  Dut  these  braided 
tresses  and  this  lovely  lip  ;  the  poets  and  the  young 
cavaliers  were  divided  into  parties  on  the  occasion. 
Tasso  has  celebrated  both  with  the  same  voluptuous 
elegance  of  style  in  which  he  described  his  Armi- 
da.  To  the  Countess  of  Scandiano  he  wrote, 

Quel  labbro,  che  le  rose  ban  colorito 
Molle  si  sporge,  e  turaidetto  in  fuore,  &c. 

To  the  Countess  of  Sala, 

Barbara !  maraviglia  de'  tempi  nostrl. 

But  the  Countess  of  Scandiano  was  more  espec- 
ially the  object  of  his  public  adoration.  It  was  a 
poetical  passion,  openly  professed ;  and  flattering, 
as  it  appears,  both  to  the  lady  and  to  her  husband, 
without  in  any  degree  implicating  either  her  dis- 
cretion or  that  of  Tasso.  Compare  his  verses  to 
this  young  Countess — this  peregrina  Fenice,*  as  he 
fancifully  styles  her,  who  comes  shining  forth,  not  to 
le  consumed,  but  to  consume, — to  the  profound  ten- 
derness, the  intense  yet  mournful  feeling  of  some 
of  the  poems  composed  for  the  Princess  d'Este, 
about  the  same  time  ;  when  he  must  have  daily 

*  "  Foreign  Phoenix." 


LEONORA  P'ESTE.  23'* 

contrasted  the  rich  bloom,  the  smiling  eyes,  and 
sparkling  graces  of  the  youthful  Countess,  with  the 
fading  or  faded  beauty,  the  languid  form,  and  pale 
cheek  of  his  long-loved  Leonora.  See  particularly 
the  Sonnet 

Tre  gran  Donue  vid'  io,  &c. 

"  Three  illustrious  ladies  did  I  behold, — I  sung 
them  all — one  only  I  loved,"  &c.  And  another, 
equally  beautiful  and  significant, 

Perch 6  'n  giovenil  volto  amor  mi  mostri 
Talor,  Donna  Real,  rose  e  ligustri 
Oblio  non  pone  in  me,  de'  miei  trilustri 
Affanni,  o  de  miei  spesi  indarno  inchiostri. 

E  '1  cor,  che  s'  invaghi  degli  onor  vostri 
Da  prima,  e  vostro  fu  poscia  piu  lustri 
Reserba,  amo  in  se  forme  piu  illustri 
Che  perle  e  gemme,  e  bei  coralli  ed  ostri. 

Queste  egli  in  suono  di  sospir  si  chiari 
Farrebbe  udir,  che  d'  amorosa  face 
Acceuderebbe  i  piu  gelati  cori. 

Ma  oltre  suo  costume  e  fatto  avaro 
De'  vostri  pregi,  suoi  dolci  tesori, 
Che  in  se  medesmo  gli  vagheggia  e  lace  I 

TRANSLATION. 

"  Albeit  in  younger  faces  Love  at  times 
May  show  me  where  a  fresher  rose  is  set, 
Yet,  Royal  Lady,  can  I  not  forget 
My  fifteen  years  of  pain  and  useless  rhymes. 

This  heart,  so  touch' d  by  all  thy  beauty  bright, 
After  so  many  years  is  still  thine  own, 


•?S8  LEONORA  D'ESTE. 

And  still  retaineth  forms  more  exquisite 
Than  pearls,  or  purple  gems,  or  coral  stone. 

All  this  my  heart  in  soft  sighs  would  make  known 
And  thus  with  fire  the  coldest  bosom  fill, 
But  that  unlike  itself,  that  heart  hath  grown 

So  covetous  of  thy  sweet  charms  and  thee, 
(Its  secret  treasures,)  that  it  aye  doth  flee 
Inwards,  and  dwells  upon  them,  and  is  still.* 

Lastly,  that  most  perfect  Sonnet,  so  well  known 
and  so  celebrated,  that  I  should  not  insert  it  here, 
but  that  I  am  enabled  to  give,  for  the  first  timef  f\ 
translation  equally  faithful  to  the  sentiment  and 
Hie  poetry  of  the  original. 

Negli  anni  acerbi  tuoi,  purpurea  nosa 
Sembravi  tu,  ch'  ai  rai  tepidi,  all'  ora 
Non  apre  '1  sen,  ma  nel  suo  verde  ancora 
Verginella  s'  asconde,  e  vergoguosa. 

0  piu  tosto  parei  (che  mortal  cosa, 
Non  s'  assomiglia  a  te)  celeste  Aurora, 
Che  le  campagne  imperla,  e  i  monti  indora 
Lucida  in  ciel  sereno  e  nigiadosa. 

Or  la  men  verde  eth,  nulla  a  te  toglie ; 
Ne  te,  benche  negletta,  in  manto  adorno 
Giovinetta  belta  vince,  o  pareggia. 

Cosi  piu  vago  6  '1  fior,  poich6  le  foglie 
Spiega  odorate :  e  '1  sol  nel  mezzo  giorno 
Vie-piu,  che  nel  mattin,  luce  e  fiammeggia. 

TRANSLATION. 

u  Thou,  in  thy  unripe  years,  wast  like  the  rose, 
Which  shrinketh  from  the  summer  dawn,  afraid, 

*  Translated  by  a  friend- 


LEONORA  D'ESTE.  239 

And  with  her  green  veil,  like  a  basb<ul  maid, 
Hideth  ht>r  bosom  sweet,  and  scarcely  blows: 
Or  rathe* . — (for  what  shape  ever  arose 

From  the  dull  earth  like  thee,)  thou  didst  appear 

Heavenly  Aurora,  who,  when  skies  are  clear, 
Her  dewy  pearls  o'er  all  the  country  sows. 

Time  stealeth  nought :  thy  rare  and  careless  grace 
Surpasseth  still  the  youthful  bride  when  neatest, — 

Her  wealth  of  dress,  her  budding  blooming  face, 
So  is  the  full-blown  rose  for  age  the  sweetest, 

So  doth  the  mid-day  sun  outshine  the  morn, 

With  rays  more  beautiful  and  brighter  born!"* 

Yet  all  this  was  too  little.  His  minor  lyrics,  the 
unlabored  and  spontaneous  effusions  of  leisure,  of 
fancy,  of  sentiment,  would  have  been  glory  enough 
for  any  other  poet,  and  fame  enough  for  any  other 
woman  :  but  Tasso  had  founded  his  hopes  of  im- 
mortality on  his  great  poem,  The  Jerusalem  De- 
livered ;  and  it  was  imperfect  in  his  eyes  unless 
Leonora  were  shrined  in  it.  To  convert  the  pale, 
gentle,  elegant  invalid  into  a  heroine,  seemed  im- 
possible :  she  was  no  model  for  his  lovely  amazon, 
Clorinda ;  nor  his  exquisite  sorceress,  Armida ; 
nor  his  love-sick  Erminia :  for  her,  therefore,  and 
to  her  honor,  and  to  the  eternal  memory  of  his 
love  for  her,  he  composed  the  episode  in  the  second 
Canto,  where  we  have  her  portrait  at  full  length 
as  Sophronia. 

Vergine  era  tra  lor,  di  gia  matura 
Verginita,  d'  alta  pensieri  e  regi, 

*  Translated  by  a  friend. 


240  LEONORA  D'ESTE. 

D'  alta  Belta;  ma  sua  belta  non  cura, 

0  tanto  sol  quant'  onesta  sen  fregi ; 

E  '1  suo  pregio  maggior  che  tra  le  mura 

D'  angusta  casa,  asconde  i  suoi  gran  pregil 

E  da'  vagheggiatori  ella  s'  invola, 

Alle  lodi,  agli  sguardi,  inculta  e  sola. 

Non  sai  ben  dir  s'  adorno,  o  se  negletta, 
Se  caso  od  arte,  il  bel  volto  compose, 
Di  natura,  d'  amor,  di  cieli  aniici, 
Le  negligenze  sue  sono  artsfici. 

Mirata  da  ciascun,  passa,  e  non  mira 
L'  altera  Donna ! 

TRANSLATION. 

M  Among  them  dwelt  a  noble  maid,  matured 
In  loveliness,  of  thoughts  serene  and  high, 
And  loftiest  beauty; — beauty  which  herself 
Esteem'd  not  more  than  modesty  might  own. 
Within  a  humble  dwelling  did  she  hide 
Her  peerless  charms,  and  shunning  lovers'  eyes, 
From  flattering  words  and  glances,  lived  retired 

Whether  'tis  curious  care,  or  sweet  neglect, 
Or  chance,  or  art,  that  have  array 'd  her  thus, 
One  scarce  can  tell:  for  each  unstudied  grace 
Has  been  the  work  of  Nature,  heaven,  and  love. 

And  thus  admired  by  all,  unheeding  all, 
Fortii  steps  the  noble  maid. 

It  is  impossible  to  mistake,  in  this  finished  and 
exquisite  portrait,  the  matured  beauty,  the  negligent 
attire,  and  love  of  solitude  which  characterized 
Leonora :  the  resemblance  was  so  perfect,  as  to  be 


LEONORA   D'ES'lE.  24 J 

universally  recognized  and  acknowledged.  But  it 
is  not,  as  M.  Ginguene  remarks,  equally  certain 
that  Tasso  lias  portrayed  himself  as  Olindo  ? 

E  clie  modesto  e,  corn'  essa  e  bella, 
Brama  assai,  poco  spera,  nulla  chiede ! 

He,  full  of  modesty  and  truth, 

Loved  much,  hoped  little,  and  desired  nought 

Has  he  not  in  the  verse 

Ed  o  mia  morte  awenturosa  appiena, 

breathed  forth  all  the  smothered  passion  of  hia 
soul  ?— 

Ed  o  mia  morte  awenturosa  appiena ! 
Oh  fortunati  miei  dolci  martiri ! 
S'impetrero  che  giunto  seno  a  seno 
L'anima  mia  nella  tuo  bocca  io  spiri, 
E  venendo  tu  meco  a  un  tempo  me  no 
In  me  fuor  mandi  gli  ultimi  sospir: 

And  0 !  how  happy  were  my  death !  how  blest 
These  tortures, — could  I  but  the  meed  obtain, 
That  breast  to  breast,  and  lip  to  lip,  our  souls 
Might  flee  together,  and  our  latest  sighs 
Mingle  in  death. 

This  episode  is  critically  a  defect  in  the  poem :  it 
deems  to  stand  alone,  unconnected  in  any  way 
with  the  main  action  ;  he  acknowledged  this  ;  but 
he  absolutely,  and  obstinately,  refused  to  alter  it, 
or  strike  it  out.  He,  who  was  in  general  amenable 
to  criticism,  even  to  a  degree  of  weakness,  willed 
16 


242  LEONORA   D'ESTE. 

that  it  should  stand  an  everlasting  monument  of 
bis  tenderness,  and  of  the  virtues  and  the  charturt 
of  her  who  inspired  it : — and  thus  it  has  been. 

A  cruel,  and  as  I  think,  a  most  unjust  imputation 
rests  on  the  memory  of  the  Princess  Leonora 
She  is  accused  of  cold-heartedness,  in  suffering 
Tasso  to  remain  so  long  imprisoned,  without  in- 
terceding in  his  favor  or  even  vouchsafing  any 
reply  to  his  affecting  supplications  for  release,  and 
for  her  mediation  in  his  behalf.  The  excuse  al- 
leged by  those  who  would  fain  excuse  her, — 
"  That  she  feared  to  compromise  herself  by  any 
interference,"  is  ten  times  worse  than  the  accusa- 
tion itself.  But  though  there  exists,  I  suppose,  no 
written  proof  that  Leonora  pleaded  the  cause  of 
Tasso,  or  sought  to  mitigate  his  sufferings  ;  neithei 
is  there  any  proof  of  the  contrary.  We  know 
little,  or  rather  nothing  of  the  private  intrigues 
of  Alphonso's  palace :  we  have  no  "  memoires 
secretes  "  of  that  day ;  no  diaries  kept  by  prying 
courtiers,  to  enlighten  us  on  what  passed  in  the 
recesses  of  the  royal  apartments :  and  upon  mere 
negative  presumption,  shall  we  brand  the  character 
of  a  woman,  who  appears  on  every  other  occasion 
BO  blameless,  so  tender-hearted,  and  beneficent, 
with  the  imputation  of  such  barbarous  selfishness  ? 
for  the  honor  of  our  sex,  and  human  nature,  I 
must  believe  it  impossible. 

In  no  other  instance  was  the  homage  which 
Tasso  loved  to  pay  to  high-born  beauty  repaid  with 
ingratitude  ;  all  his  life  seems  to  have  been  an 


LEONORA  D'ESTE.  243 

object  of  affectionate  interest  to  women.  They 
in  his  misery,  stood  not  aloof,  but  ministered  to  him 
the  oil  and  balm,  which  soothed  his  vexed  and  dis- 
tempered spirit.  The  Countesses  of  Sala  and 
Scandiano  never  forgot  him.  Lucretia  Bendidio, 
who  had  married  into  the  Marchiavelli  family,  sent 
him  in  his  captivity  all  the  consolation  she  could 
bestow,  or  he  receive.  The  Duchess ,  of  Urbino 
(Lucretia  d'Este)  was  munificently  kind  to  him. 
The  young  Princess  of  Mantua,  she  for  whom  he 
wrote  his  "  Torrismondo,"  loaded  him  with  courtesy 
and  proofs  of  her  regard.  He  was  ill  at  the  Court 
of  Mantua,  after  his  release  from  Ferrara ;  and 
her  exertions  to  procure  him  a  copy  of  Euripides, 
which  he  wished  to  consult,  (an  anecdote  cited 
somewhere,  as  a  proof  of  the  rarity  of  the  book 
at  that  time,)  is  also  a  proof  of  the  interest  and  at- 
tention with  which  she  regarded  him.  It  happened 
when  he  was  at  the  Court  of  the  Duke  of  Urbino, 
that  he  had  to  undergo  a  surgical  operation ;  and 
the  sister  of  the  Duke,  the  young  and  beautiful 
Lavinia  di  Rovera,  prepared  the  bandages,  and 
applied  them  with  her  own  fair  and  princely  hands  ; 
— a  little  instance  of  affectionate  interest,  which 
Tasso  has  himself  commemorated.  If  then  we  do 
not  find  Leonora  publicly  appearing  as  the  bene- 
factress of  Tasso,  and  using  her  influence  over  her 
brother  in  his  behalf,  is  it  not  a  presumption  that 
she  was  implicated  in  his  punishment?  What 
comfort  or  kindness  she  could  have  grantedt  must, 
under  such  circumstances,  have  Veen  bestowed 


244  LEONORA  D'ESTE. 

with  infinite  precaution ;  and,  from  gratitude  and 
discretion,  as  carefully  concealed.  We  know,  that 
after  the  first  year  of  his  confinement,  Tasso  waa 
removed  to  a  less  gloomy  prison ;  and  we  kno\f 
that  Leonora  died  a  few  weeks  afterwards ;  but 
what  share  she  might  have  had  in  procuring  this 
mitigation  of  his  suffering  we  do  not  know ;  nor 
how  far  the  fate  of  Tasso  might  have  affected  her 
BO  as  to  hasten  her  own  death.  If  we  are  to  argue 
upon  probabilities,  without  any  preponderating 
proof,  in  the  name  of  womanhood  and  charity,  let 
it  be  on  the  side  of  indulgence ;  let  us  not  believe 
Leonora  guilty,  but  upon  such  authority  as  never 
has  been, — and  I  trust  never  can  be  produced. 
*  *  *  *  * 

About  two  years  after  the  completion  of  the 
Jerusalem  Delivered,  and  four  years  after  the  first 
representation  of  Aminta,  when  all  Europe  rung 
with  the  poet's  fame,  Tasso  fled  from  the  Court  of 
Ferrara,  in  a  fit  of  distraction.  His  frenzy  wa? 
caused  partly  by  religious  horrors  and  scruples' 
partly  by  the  petty  but  accumulated  injuries  which 
malignity  and  tyranny  had  heaped  upon  him ; 
partly  by  a  long-indulged  and  hopeless  passion 
and  with  these,  other  moral  and  physical  causea 
combined.  He  fled,  to  hide  himself  and  his  sorrows 
in  the  arms  of  his  sister  Cornelia.  The  brother 
and  sister  had  not  met  since  their  childish  years ; 
and  Tasso,  wild  with  misery,  forlorn,  and  penniless, 
knew  not  what  reception  he  was  to  meet  with, 
When  arrived  within  a  league  of  his  birthplace, 


LEONOKA  D'ESTE.  24i 

Sorrento,*  ho  changed  clothes  with  a  shepherd, 
and  in  this  disguise  appeared  before  his  sistet ,  as 
one  sent  with  tidings  of  her  brother's  misfortunes. 
The  recital,  we  may  believe,  was  not  coldly  given. 
Cornelia,  who  appears  to  have  inherited  with  the 
personal  beauty,  the  sensibility  and  strong  domestic 
affections  of  her  mother,  Portia,f  was  so  violently 
agitated  by  the  eloquence  of  the  feigned  messenger, 
that  she  fainted  away ;  and  Tasso  was  obliged  tc 
hasten  the  denouement  by  discovering  himself.  In 
the  same  moment  he  was  clasped  in  her  affection- 
ate arms,  and  bathed  with  her  tears.  How  often, 
when  I  have  stood  on  my  balcony  at  Naples,  have 
I  looked  towards  the  white  buildings  of  Sorrento, 
glittering  afar  upon  the  distant  promontory,  and 
thought  upon  this  scene  !  and  felt,  how  that  which 
is  already  surpassingly  beautiful  to  the  eye,  may 
be  hallowed  to  the  imagination  by  such  remem- 
brances as  these ! 

Tasso  resided  with  his  sister  for  three  years,  the 
object  of  her  unwearied  and  tender  attention.  It 
was  on  his  return  to  Ferrara,  (recalled,  as  Manso 
says,  by  the  tenor  of  Leonora's  letters,:]:)  that  he 
was  imprisoned  as  a  lunatic  at  St.  Anne's.  They 
show  to  travellers  the  cell  in  which  he  was  con- 

*  Near  Naples :  thus,  in  his  pathetic  Canzone  on  himself,— 

'Sassel  la  gloriosa  alma  Sirena 
Appresso  il  cui  sepolcro,  ebbi  la  cuna ! 

t  The  wife  of  Bernardo  Tasso.  See  an  account  of  her  ta 
Black's  Life  of  Tasso. 

*  Manso,  Vita  di  T.  Tasso. 


246  LEONORA  D'ESTE. 

fined.  Over  the  entrance  of  the  gallery  leading 
to  it,  is  written  up  in  large  letters,  "  Ingresso  alia 
Prigione  di  Torquato  Tasso,"  as  if  to  blazon,  in  the 
eye  of  the  stranger,  what  is  at  once  the  renown 
and  disgrace  of  that  fallen  city.  The  cell  itself  is 
small,  dark,  and  low.  The  abhorred  grate, 

Marring  the  sunbeams  with  its  hideous  shade, 

is  a  semi-circular  window,  strongly  cross-barred 
with  iron  ;  it  looks  into  a  court-yard,  so  built  up,  if 
I  remember  rightly,  that  the  noonday  sun  could 
scarce  reach  it.  Even  without  the  hallowed  asso- 
ciations connected  with  the  spot,  it  would  have 
chilled  and  saddened  me.  With  them,  the  very 
air  had  a  suffocating  weight;  and  the  cold  dark 
wall,  and  low-bowed  roof,  struck  a  shivering  awe 
through  the  blood.  Upon  the  plaster  outside  the 
grated  window,  I  observed  several  names  written 
in  pencil ;  among  the  rest,  those  of  Byron  and 
Rogers.  I  must  observe  here,  that  the  "  Lament 
of  Tasso  "  is,  in  fact,  a  canto  taken  from  Tasso's 
minor  poems.  Almost  every  sentiment  there  ex- 
pressed, may  be  found  in  the  Italian ;  but  the  soul 
of  the  poet  has  been  transfused  with  such  a  glow- 
ing impulse  into  its  new  mould,  it  never  seems  to 
have  been  adapted  to  another  ;  the  precious  metal 
is  the  same,  only  the  impress  is  different,  and  it  has 
been  stamped  by  a  kindred  and  a  master  spirit 
Lord  Byron  says, 

Yes,  Leonora !  it  shall  be  our  fate 
To  he  entwined  forever;  but  too  latel 


LEONORA  D'BSTE.  24,' 

fasso  had  said,  that  his  name  and  that  of  Leonora 
should  be  united  and  soar  to  fame  together. 

"  Ella  a  miei  versi,  ed  io 
Circondava  al  suo  nome  altere  piume, 
E  1'  un  per  1'altro  ando  volando  a  prova; ' 

—and  a  long  list  of  corresponding  passages  an*1 
sentiments  might  easily  be  pointed  out. 

The  inscription  on  the  door  of  Tasso's  cell,  lies,  I 
believe,  like  many  other  inscriptions.  Tasso  was  not 
confined  in  this  cell  for  seven  years  ;  but  here  it  waa 
that  he  addressed  that  affecting  Canzone  to  Leo- 
nora and  her  sister  Lucrezia,  which  begins  "  Figlie 
di  Renata," — "  Daughters  of  Renee  !  "  Thus  in 
the  very  commencement,  by  this  delicate  and 
tender  apostrophe,  bespeaking  their  compassion, 
by  awakening  the  remembrance  of  their  mother, 
like  him  so  long  a  wretched  prisoner.  He  reminds 
them  of  the  years  he  spent  at  their  side — "  their 
noble  servant  and  their  dear  companion," 

Gli  anni  miei  tra  voi  spese, — 
Qual  son, — qual  fui, — che  chiedo — ove  mi  trovo!  * 
He  was,  after  the  first  year,  removed  to  a  larger 
cell,  with  better  accommodations.     Here  he  made 
a  collection  of  his  smaller  poems  lately  written, 
and  dedicated  them  to  the  two  Princesses.     But 
Leonora  was  no  longer  in  a  state  to  be  charmed  by 
the  verses,  or  flattered  or  touched  by  the  admiring 
devotion  of  her  lover, — her  poet, — her  faithful  ser- 

*  Part  of  this  Canzone  has  been  elegantly  translated  by  Mr 
ISTffen,  in  his  Life  of  Tasso,  p.  83 


248  LEONORA  D'ESTB. 

vant:  she  was  dying.  A  slow  and  cureless  dis- 
ease preyed  on  her  delicate  frame,  and  she  expired 
in  the  second  year  of  Tasso's  imprisonment.  When 
the  news  of  her  danger  was  brought  to  him,  he 
requested  his  friend  Fignarola  to  kiss  her  hand  in 
his  name,  and  ask  her  whether  there  was  any  thing 
which,  in  his  sad  state,  he  could  do  for  her  ease 
or  pleasure  ?  We  do  not  know  how  this  tender 
message  was  received  or  answered ;  but  it  was  too 
late.  Leonora  died  in  February,  1581,  after  lin- 
gering from  the  November  previous. 

Thus  perished,  of  a  premature  decay,  th* 
woman  who  had  been  for  seventeen  years  the 
idol  of  a  poet's  imagination, — the  worship  of  a 
poet's  heart ;  she  who  was  not  unworthy  of  being 
enshrined  in  the  rich  tracery- work  of  sweet 
thoughts  and  bright  fancies  she  had  herself  sug- 
gested. The  love  of  Tasso  for  the  Princess  Leo- 
nora might  have  appeared,  in  his  own  time,  some- 
thing like  the  "  desire  of  the  night-moth  for  the 
star  !  "  but  what  is  it  now?  what  was  it  then  in  the 
eyes  of  her  whom  he  adored  ?  How  far  was  it 
permitted,  encouraged,  repaid  in  secret  ?  This  we 
cannot  know ;  and  perhaps  had  we  lived  at  the 
time, — in  the  very  Court,  and  looked  daily  into 
her  own  soft  eyes,  practised  to  conceal, — we  had 
been  no  wiser.  Yet  one  more  observation. 

When  Leonora  died,  all  the  poets  of  Ferrara 
pressed  forward  with  the  usual  tribute  of  elegy  and 
eulogium ;  but  the  voice  of  Tasso  was  not  heard 
among  the  rest.  He  alone  flung  no  garland  on  the 


LEONORA   BARONI.  249 

bier  of  her,  whose  living  brow  he  had  wreathed  with 
the  brightest  flowers  of  song.  This  is  adduced  by  Se- 
rassi  as  a  proof  that  he  had  never  loved  her.  Gia 
guene  himself  can  only  account  for  it,  by  the  pre- 
sumption that  he  was  piqued  by  that  coldness  and 
neglect,  which  I  have  shown  was  merely  suppositi- 
tious. Strange  reasoning !  as  if  Tasso,  while  his 
heart  bled  over  his  loss,  in  his  solitary  cell,  could 
have  deigned  to  join  this  crowd  of  courtly  mourn- 
ers !  as  if,  under  such  circumstances,  in  such  a 
moment,  the  greatness  of  his  grief  could  have 
burst  forth  in  any  terms  that  must  not  have  ex- 
posed himself  to  fresh  rigors,  and  the  fame,  at  least 
the  discretion,  of  her  he  had  loved,  to  suspicion  ! 
No !  nothing  remained  to  him  but  silence ; — and 
he  was  silent. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

MILTON  AND   LEONORA   BARONI. 

THE  Marquis  Manso  of  Naples,  who  in  his  early 
youth  had  entertained  Tasso  in  his  palace,  had 
cherished  and  honored  him  when  that  great  but 
unhappy  man  was  wandering,  brain-struck  with 
misery,  from  one  court  to  another, — was,  in  hia 
old  age,  the  host  and  admirer  of  Milton ;  thus,  by 
a  singular  good  fortune,  allying  hia  name  to  two  of 


&00  LEONORA    BARONI. 

the  most  illustrious  of  earth's  diviner  sons  :  white 
theirs,  linked  together  by  the  recollection  of  this 
common  friend,  follow  each  other  in  our  memory 
by  a  natural  transition.  We  can  think  of  them  aa 
pressing,  though  at  an  interval  of  many  years,  the 
same  friendly  hand,  and  gracing  the  same  hospitable 
board  with  "  colloquy  sublime."  Tasso,  from  the 
romance  of  his  story,  and  his  personal  character, 
is  the  most  interesting  of  the  two;  yet  Milton, 
besides  standing  highest  in  the  scale  of  mora! 
dignity,  sits  nearest  to  our  hearts  as  an  English- 
man, whose  genius,  speaking  through  our  native 
accents,  strikes  upon  our  sense, 

Like  the  large  utterance  of  the  early  gods. 


We  rise  from  reading  Johnson's  Biography  of 
Milton,  either  with  the  most  painful  and  indignant 
feeling  of  the  malignity  of  the  critic,*  or  with  an 
impression  of  Milton's  character,  as  false  as  it  is 
xlious.  Of  moral  inconsistency  and  weakness, 
olended  with  splendid  genius,  we  have  proofs 
lamentable  and  numerous  enough  :  to  be  obliged 
to  regard  the  mighty  father  of  English  verse,  — 
him  "  who  rode  sublime  upon  the  seraph  wings  of 
ecstasy,"  —  him,  whose  harmonious  soul  was  tuned 
to  the  music  of  the  spheres,  though  when  struck 
in  evil  times,  and  by  an  adverse  hand,  it  sent  forth 
a  crash  of  discord,  —  him,  who  has  left  us  the  most 

*  What  Dr.  Johnson  wrote  is  known  ;  —  he  was  accustomed  t' 
-ay  that  the  admiration  expressed  for  Milton  was  sv)\  «an«. 


LEONORA    BARONI.  251 

exquisite  pictures  of  tenderness  and  fceauty — to 
think  of  such  a  being  as  a  petty  domestic  tyrant,  a 
coarse-minded  fanatic,  stern  and  unfeeling  in  ali 
the  relations  of  life,  were  enough  to  confound  all 
our  ideas  of  moral  fitness.  When  we  figure  to 
ourselves  the  author  of  Rasselas  trampling  over 
the  ashes  of  Milton,  lending  his  mighty  powers  to 
degrade  the  majestic,  to  disfigure  the  beautiful,  and 
darken  the  glorious,  it  is  with  the  same  feeling  of 
concentrated  disgust  with  which  we  recall  the 
violation  of  the  poet's  grave,  some  years  ago,  when 
vulgar  savages  defaced  and  carried  off  his  sacred 
and  venerable  remains  piecemeal.*  Let  us  for  a 
moment  imagine  our  Milton  descending  to  earth  to 
assert  his  injured  fame,  and  confronted  with  his 
great  biographer — 

Look  here  upon  this  picture,  and  on  this — 

The  one,  like  his  own  Adam,  with  fair  large  front 
and  hyacinthine  locks,  serene  and  blooming  as  his 
own  Eden  ;  in  all  the  dignified  graces  which  tem- 
perance and  self-conquest  lend  to  youth,f  in  all 
the  purity  of  his  stainless  mind,  radiant  like  another 

*  ]  have  before  me  the  pamphlet,  entitled  "  A  Narrative  ol  the 
disinterment  of  Milton's  coffin,  on  Wednesday  the  4th  of  August, 
1790,  and  of  the  treatment  of  the  Corpse  during  that  and  the 
following  day."  The  circumstances  are  too  revolting  to  be 
dwelt  upon. 

t  Si  les  Anges,  (said  Madame  de  Stael,)  n'ont  pas  et6  represent^ 
§ous  IPS  traits  de  femme,  c'est  parceque  1'union  de  la  force  avefl 
la  f  Mr<5te,  est  plus  belle  et  plus  celeste  encoi  e  que  la  modestto 
»ATW  )n  plus  parfti  e  dans  un  fetre  faible. 


252  LEONORA    BARONI. 

Moses,  with  the  reflected  glories  of  the  Empyi  euro. 
— and  then  look  upon  the  other! — But  it  is  an 
awful  thing  for  little  people,  to  meddle  with  great 
and  sacred  names ;  and  so  leaving  the  Hippopotamus 
of  literature  in  his  den — proceed  we. 

It  relieves  the  heart  from  an  oppressive  contra- 
diction to  behold  Milton,  such  as  he  was  represented 
by  his  other  biographers,  and  such  as  undoubtedly 
he  really  was.  It  is  well  known,  that  in  his  youth, 
and  even  at  a  late  age,  he  had  an  uncommonly 
fine  person,  almost  to  effeminacy;  and  was  as 
gracefully  endowed  in  form  and  manners,  as  he 
was  highly  and  holily  gifted  in  mind.  His  natural 
mildness,  cheerfulness,  and  courtesy,  are  com- 
memorated by  all  who  knew  him,  or  lived  near 
his  time.*  He  whom  Johnson  accuses  of  a  "  Turk- 
ish contempt  of  females,  as  inferior  beings,"  and 
whom  he  represents  in  a  light  so  ungentle  and 
gloomy,  that  we  cannot  imagine  him  under  the 
influence  of  beauty,  was  early  touched  by  the 
softest  passions,  and  during  his  whole  life  peculiarly 
sensible  to  the  charm  of  female  society :  witness 
his  successive  marriages,  and  his  friendship  and 
intercourse  with  Lady  Margaret  Ley,  and  the  all- 
accomplished  Countess  of  Ranelagh,  who  supplied 


*  See  his  life  by  Dr.  Symmons,  Dr.  Todd,  Newton,  Hayley, 
Aubrey, Richardson,  Warton.  7 

"  She  (his  daughter  Deborah)  spoke  of  him  with  great  tender- 
ness ;  she  said  he  was  delightful  company,  the  life  of  the  con- 
versation, and  that  on  account  of  a  flow  of  subject,  and  an 
Unaffected  cheerfulness  and  civility,"  &c.— RICHARDSON. 


LEONORA   BARON1.  253 

K>  him,  as  he  says,  the  place  of  every  friend  ;* 
witness,  too,  a  thousand  most  lovely  and  glorioua 
passages  scattered  through  his  works,  which  women 
may  quote  with  triumph,  as  proofs  that  we  had  no 
small  influence  over  the  imagination  of  our  great 
epic  poet.  ,  What  but  the  most  reverential  and 
lofty  feeling  of  the  graces  and  virtues  proper  to 
our  sex,  could  have  embodied  such  an  exquisite 
vision  as  the  Lady  in  Comus  ?  or  created  his  de- 
lightful Eve  ?  on  whom,  "  as  on  a  queen,  a  pomp 
of  winning  graces  waited  still." 

All  higher  knowledge  in  her  presence  falls 
Degraded ;  wisdom,  in  discourse  with  her, 
Loses  discountenanc'd,  and  like  folly  shows; 
Authority  and  reason  on  her  wait, 
As  one  intended  first,  not  after  made 
Occasionally;  and  to  consummate  all, 
Greatness  of  mind  and  nobleness  their  seat, 
Built  in  her  loveliest,  and  create  an  awe 
About  her,  as  a  guard  angelic  plac'd. 

And  this  is  the  being  whom  a  lady-author  calls 
a  "  great  overgrown  baby,  with  nothing  to  rec- 
ommend her  but  her  submission,  and  her  fine 
hair !  "f — two  things,  be  it  observed,  among  the 
most  graceful  of  our  feminine  attributes,  mental 
and  exterior.  The  poet  who  conceived  and  wrote 
this  description,  most  assuredly  had  not  a  "  Turkish 
contempt"  for  the  female  character. 

*  She  was  Catherine  Boyle,  the  daughter  of  the  Great  Earl  of 
Cork,  one  of  the  most  excellent  and  most  distinguished 
of  that  time.— See  Hayley's  Life  of  Milton, 

t  Miss  Letitia  Hawkins. 


254  LEONORA   BARONI. 

Milton  was  in  love,  as  he  tells  us  himself,  at 
nineteen  ;  but  the  object  cannot  even  be  guessed 
at.  He  has  celebrated  this  boyish  passion  very 
beautifully  in  one  of  his  Latin  elegies.  One  of 
the  passages  in  this  poem,  in  which  he  compares 
the  effect  produced  on  him  by  the  first  momentary 
view  of  his  mistress,  followed  by  her  immediate 
absence  to  the  Theban  (Eclides,*  swallowed  up 
by  the  abyss  which  opens  beneath  him,  and  gazing 
back  upon  the  parting  light  of  day,  is  admired  for 
its  classic  sublimity  and  appropriate  beauty. 

There  is  a  tradition  mentioned  by  all  'his  bio- 
graphers, that  while  Milton  was  a  student  at  Cam- 
bridge, an  Italian  lady  of  rank,  who  was  travelling 
in  England,  found  him  sleeping  one  day  under  the 
shade  of  a  tree,  and,  struck  with  his  beauty,  wrote 
with  her  pencil  on  a  slip  of  paper,  the  pretty 
madrigal,  of  Guarini,  which  Menage  translated 
for  Madame  de  Sevigne,  "  Occhi,  stelle  mortal!," 
and  leaving  it  in  his  hand,  pursued  her  journey. 
This  fair  unknown  is  said  to  have  been  the  cause 
of  Milton's  travels  into  Italy ;  but  the  story  rests 
on  no  authority :  and  it  is  clear,  that  the  "  foreign 
fair"  to  whom  the  Sonnets  are  addressed,  waa 
neither  imaginary  nor  unknown.  During  his  stay 
at  Rome,  he  was  received  with  particular  dis- 
tinction by  the  Cardinal  Barberini,  the  nephew  of 
the  reigning  Pope,  and  at  his  palace  had  frequent 
opportunities  of  hearing  Leonora  Baroni,  the 
finest  singer  in  Italy.  She  was  the  daughter  of 

*  Otherwise  Amphiaraus :  his  story  is  told  by  Ovid.     Met.  B.  9 


LEONORA   BABONZ.  253 

Adriana  of  Mantua,  surnamed,  for  her  beauty, 
La  Bella  Adriana,  and  the  best  singer  and  player 
on  the  lute  of  her  time.  Leonora  inherited  her 
mother's  extraordinary  talent  for  music,  and  con- 
quered all  hearts  by  the  inexpressible  charm  of  her 
voice  and  style.  She  was  also  a  poetess,  frequently 
composing  the  words  of  her  own  songs.  Though 
not  a  regular  beauty,  she  had  brilliant  eyes,  and 
a  captivating  countenance  and  manner.  Count 
Fulvio  Testi,  in  a  Sonnet  addressed  to  her,  cele- 
brates the  union  of  so  many  charms : 

Tra  il  concento  e  '1  fulgor,  dubbio  6  se  sia 
^  udir  piu  dolce,  o  il  rimirar  piu  caro. 
Deh  fammi  cieco,  o  fammi  sordo,  amore ! 

M.  Maugars,  himself  a  musician,  who  saw  and 
heard  Leonora  at  Rome,  praises  her  talents  gener- 
ally, and  adds,  that  she  was  no  coquette  ;  that  she 
sang  with  confidence,  but  with  modesty  ;  that  there 
was  nothing  in  her  manners  that  could  be  censured ; 
that  the  effect  she  produced  on  those  who  heard 
her,  was  owing,  not  only  to  the  wonderful  rapidity 
and  delicacy  of  her  execution,  but  to  the  care  with 
which  she  gave  the  exact  sense  and  proper  ex- 
pression of  the  words  she  sang.  He  tells  us,  that 
on  one  occasion,  she  favored  him  by  singing  with 
her  mother  'and  her  sister,  each  accompanying 
herself  on  a  different  instrument,  (in  those  days 
pianos  were  not,  and  Leonora's  favorite  instrument 
was  the  Theorbo,  on  which  she  excelled.)  This 
little  concert  so  enraptured  our  musician,  that,  to 


256  LEONORA    BARONI. 

use  his  own  words,  he  forgot  his  mortality,  **  et 
crut  etre  dejk  parmi  les  anges,  jouissant  des  con- 
tentemens  des  bienheureux." 

It  is  no  wonder  that  the  charms  and  talents 
which  exalted  this  prosaic  Frenchman  almost  into 
a  poet,  should  turn  the  heads  of  poets  themselves. 
The  verses  addressed  to  Leonora  were  collected 
into  a  volume,  and  published  under  the  title  of 
"  Applausi  poetici  alle  glorie  della  Signora  Leonora 
Baroni." — "  Poetical  eulogies  to  the  glory  of  Sig- 
nora Leonora  Baroni."  A  similar  homage  had 
been  paid  to  her  mother,  Adriana,  who  reckoned 
Tasso  among  her  panegyrists.  This  may  seem  too 
high  a  distinction  for  a  species  of  talent,  which, 
however  admirable,  can  leave  behind  no  durable 
monument,  and  therefore  can  claim  no  interest 
with  posterity.  Yet  is  it  just,  that  those  whom 
Heaven  has  enriched  with  the  gift  of  melody,  and 
who  have  cultivated  that  delicious  faculty  to  its 
height,  until  with  angel-skill  they  can  suspend  the 
dominion  of  pain  in  aching  hearts,* — that  such 
should  ravish  with  delight  a  whole  generation,  and 
then  perish  from  the  earth,  they  and  their  memory, 
with  the  pleasure  they  bestowed,  and  gratitude  be 
voiceless  and  tuneless  in  their  praise  ?  The  gift 
of  song  is  fleeting  as  that  of  beauty ;  but  while  the 
painter  fixes  on  his  canvas 

*  As  Milton  felt  when  he  wrote- 

And  ever  against  eating  cares, 
Lap  me  in  soft  Lydian  airs. 


LEONORA   BAltONI.  257 

The  vermeil-tine  tur'd  lip, 

Love-darting  eyes,  and  tresses  like  the  morn, 

what  shall  immortalize  the  tones  which  "  turned 
sense  to  soul  ? "  what  but  poetry,  which,  while  it 
preserves  the  memory  of  such  excellence,  gives 
back  to  the  fancy  some  reflection  of  the  delight  we 
have  felt,  when  the  full  tide  of  a  divine  voice  is 
poured  forth  to  the  sense,  like  wine  from  an  en- 
caaated  cup,  making  us  thrill  "  with  music's  pulse 
in  every  artery."  Leonora  Baroni  had  her  poets, 
and  her  name,  linked  with  that  of  Milton,  shall 
never  die. 

It  is  a  curious  circumstance,  and  one  but  little 
consonant  with  the  popular  idea  of  Milton's  aus- 
terity, that  the  object  of  his  poetical  homage,  and 
even  of  his  serious  admiration,  was  an  Italian 
singer ;  but  it  must  be  remembered,  that  Milton, 
the  son  of  an  accomplished  musician,*  was,  by 
nature  and  education,  peculiarly  susceptible  to  the 
power  of  sweet  sounds.  Next  to  poetry,  music 
was  with  him  a  passion ;  and  the  profession  of  a 
singer  in  those  days,  when  the  art  was  in  its  second 

*  Milton  alludes  to  his  father's  talent  for  music : 

Thyself 

Art  skilful  to  associate  verse  with  airs 
Harmonious,  and  to  give  the  human  voice 
A  thousand  modulations. — 
Such  distribution  of  himself  to  us 
Was  Phoebus'  choice ;  t hou  hast  thy  gift,  and  I 
Mine  also ;  and  between  us  we  receive, 
Father  and  Son.  the  whole  inspiring  God  ! 

AD  PATREM 
17 


258  LEONORA   BARONi. 

infancy,  was  more  highly  estimated,  in  proportion 
as  excellence  was  more  rare  and  less  publicly  ex- 
hibited. J  cannot  find  that  either  Leonora  Baroni, 
or  her  mother  Adriana,  ever  appeared  on  a  stage  ; 
yet  their  celebrity  had  spread  from  one  end  of 
Italy  to  the  other.  Milton  joined  the  crowd  of 
Leonora's  votaries  at  Rome,  and  has  expressed  his 
enthusiastic  admiration,  not  only  in  verse  but  in 
prose.*  He  addressed  her  in  Latin  and  Italian, 
the  languages  she  understood,  and  which  she  had 
perfectly  at  command.  In  one  of  his  Latin  poems, 
''  To  Leonora,  singing  at  Rome,"  the  allusion  to 

Leonora  d'Este, 

I 

Another  Leonora  once  inspired 

Tasso,  by  hopeless  love  to  frenzy  fired,  &c. 

is  as  happy  as  it  is  beautiful,  and  shows  the  belief 
which  then  prevailed  of  the  real  cause  of  Tasso's 
lelirium. 

Two  of  Milton's  Italian  sonnets  are  very  beau- 
tiful, and  have  been  translated  by  Cowper  with 
singular  felicity.  All  his  biographers  agree  that 
Leonora  Baroni  is  the  subject  of  both ;  the  first, 
addressed  to  Carlo  Diodati,  describes  the  lady, 
whose  dark  and  foreign  charms  are  opposed  to 
those  of  the  blonde  beauties  he  had  admired  in  his 
youth. 

*  There  is  extant  a  prose  letter  from  Milton  to  Holstentiua 
the  librarian  of  the  Vatican,  in  which  he  accounts  as  one  of  hla 
greatest  pleasures  at  Rome,  that  of  having  known  and  heard 
r,eonora 


LEONORA   BARONI.  259 

SONNET. 

Diodali/  ete'l  diro  con  maraviglia,  &c. 

Charles,— and  I  say  it  wondering,— thou  must  know 
That  I,  who  once  assumed  a  scornful  air, 
And  scoffed  at  Love,  am  fallen  into  his  snare; 
(Full  many  an  upright  man  has  fallen  so.) 
Yet  think  me  not  thus  dazzled  by  the  flow 
Of  golden  locks,  or  damask  rose ;  more  rare 
The  heartfelt  beauties  of  my  foreign  fair ! 
A  mien  majestic,  with  dark  brows,  that  show 
The  tranquil  lustre  of  a  lofty  mind, — 
Words  exquisite,  of  idioms  more  than  one; 
And  song,  whose  fascinating  power  might  bind, 
And  from  her  sphere  draw  down  the  lab'ring  moon; 
With  such  fire-darting  eyes,  that  should  I  fill 
Mine  ears  with  wax,  she  would  enchant  me  still! 

In  this  translation,  though  elegant  and  faithful, 
the  lines, 

A  mien  majestic,  with  dark  brows,  that  show 
The  tranquil  lustre  of  a  lofty  mind, 

have  much  diluted  the  energy  of  Milton's 

Portamenti  alti  onesti,  e  nelle  ciglia 
Qxiel  sereno  fulgor  d'amabil  nero. 

In  the  other  sonnet,  addressed  to  Leonora,  he 
gives,  with  all  the  simplicity  of  conscious  worth, 
this  lofty  description  of  himself,  and  of  his  claims 
to  her  preference. 

SONNET. 
Giovane,  piano,  e  semplicetto  amante,  &o. 

Enamor'd,  artless,  young,  on  foreign  ground, 
Uncertain  whether  from  myself  to  'fly, 


260  LEONORA    BARONI. 

To  thee,  dear  lady,  with  an  humble  sigh, 
Let  me  devote  my  heart,  which  I  have  found, 
By  certain  proofs  not  few,  intrepid,  sound, 
Good,  and  addicted  to  conceptions  high : 
When  tempests  shake  the  world,  and  fire  the  sky 
It  rests  in  adamant,  self-wrapt  around, 
As  safe'  from  envy  and  from  outrage  rude, 
From  hopes  and  fears  that  vulgar  minds  abuse, 
As  fond  of  genius  and  fixed  solitude, 
Of  the  resounding  lyre  and  every  muse 
Weak  you  will  find  it  in  one  only  part, 
Now  pierc'd  by  Love's  immedicable  dart. 


Milton  was  three  times  married.  The  relations 
of  his  first  wife,  (Mary  Powell,)  who  were  violent 
Royalists,  and  ashamed  or  afraid  of  their  connection 
with  a  republican,  persuaded  her  to  leave  him. 
She  absolutely  forsook  her  husband  for  nearly 
three  years,  and  resided  with  her  family  at  Oxford, 
when  that  city  was  the  head-quarters  of  the  King's 
party.  "  I  have  so  much  charity  for  her,"  says 
Aubrey,  "  that  she  might  not  wrong  his  bed ;  but 
what  man  (especially  contemplative,)  would  like  to 
have  a  young  wife  environed  and  stormed  by  the 
sons  of  Mars,  and  those  of  the  ennemie  partie  ?  " 

Milton,  though  a  suspicion  of  the  nature  hinted 
at  by  Aubrey  never  rose  in  his  mind,  was  justly 
incensed  at  this  dereliction.  He  was  on  the  point 
>f  divorcing  this  contumacious  bride,  and  had 
already  made  choice  of  another*  to  succeed  her, 

*  Miss  Davies.  "  The  lather  (says  Hayley)  seems  to  have  been 
»  oonvert  to  Milton's  arguments;  but  the  lady  had  scruples 


LEONORA   BARONI.  261 

when  she  threw  herself,  impromptu,  at  his  feet  and 
implored  his  forgiveness.  He  forgave  her :  and 
when  the  republican  party  triumphed,  the  family 
who  had  so  cruelly  wronged  him  found  a  refuge  in 
his  house..  This  woman  embittered  his  life  for 
fourteen  or  fifteen  years. 

A  remembrance  of  the  reconciliation  with  his 
wife,  and  of  his  own  feelings  on  that  occasion,  are 
said  to  have  suggested  to  Milton's  mind  the  beauti- 
ful scene  between  Adam  and  Eve,  in  the  tenth 
book  of  the  Paradise  Lost. 

She  ended  weeping?  and  her  lowly  plight, 
Immovable,  till  peace  obtained  for  faults 
Acknowledged  and  deplored,  in  Adam  wrought 
Commiseration ;  soon  his  heart  relented 
Tow'rds  her,  his  life  so  late  and  sole  delight 
Now  at  his  feet  submissive  in  distress, 
Creature  so  fair,  his  reconcilement  seeking; 
As  one  disarmed,  his  anger  all  he  lost,  &c. 

Milton's  second  and  most  beloved  wife  (Cathe- 
rine Woodcock)  died  in  childbed,  within  a  year 
after  their  marriage.  He  honored  her  memory 
with  what  Johnson  (out  upon  him  !)  calls  a  poor 
sonnet ;  it  is  the  one  beginning 

She  possessed  (according  to  Phillips)  both  wit  and  beauty.  A 
novelist  could  hardly  imagine  circumstances  more  singularly 
distressing  to  sensibility  than  the  situation  of  the  poet,  if,  as  we 
may  reasonably  conjecture,  he  was  deeply  enamored  of  this  lady ; 
if  her  father  was  inclined  to  accept  him  as  a  son-in-law,  and  the 
object  of  his  love  had  no  inclination  to  reject  his  suit,  but  what 
arose  from  a  dread  of  his  being  indissolubly  united  to  another." 
Itfe  of  Milton,  p.  90. 


262  LEONORA   BARONI. 

Methought  I  saw  my  late  espoused  saint- 
Brought  to  me,  like  Alcestis  from  the  grave; 

which,  in  its  solemn  and  tender  strain  of  feeling 
and  modulated  harmony,  reminds  us  of  Dante. 
He  never  ceased  to  lament  her,  and  to  cherish  her 
memory  with  a  fond  regret : — she  must  have  been 
full  in  his  heart  and  mind  when  he  wrote  those 
touching  lines  in  the  Paradise  Lost — 

How  can  I  live  without  thee  ?  how  forego 
Thy  sweet  converse  and  love  so  dearly  joined, 
To  live  again  in  these  wild  woods  forlorn? 
Should  God  create  another  Eve,  and  I 
Another  rib  afford,  yet  loss  of  thee 
Would  never  from  my  heart ! 

After  her  death, — blind,  disconsolate,  and  help- 
less— he  was  abandoned  to  petty  wrongs  and 
domestic  discord  ;  and  suffered  from  the  disobedi- 
ence and  unkindness  of  his  two  elder  daughters, 
like  another  Lear.  His  youngest  daughter,  Debo- 
rah, was  the  only  one  who  acted  as  his  amanuensis, 
and  she  always  spoke  of  him  with  extreme  affec- 
tion ; — on  being  suddenly  shown  his  picture,  twenty 
years  after  his  death,  she  burst  into  tears. 

These  three  daughters  were  grown  up,  and  the 
youngest  about  fifteen,  when  Milton  married  his 
third  wife,  Elizabeth  Minshull.  She  was  a  gentle, 
kind-hearted  woman,  without  pretensions  of  any 
kind,  who  watched  over  his  declining  years  with 
affectionate  care.  One  biographer  has  not  scrupled 
to  assert,  that  to  her, — or  rather  to  her  tender 


CAREW8    CELIA.  263 

reverence  for  his  studious  habits,  and  to  the  peace 
and  comfort  she  brought  to  his  heart  and  home, — 
we  owe  the  Paradise  Lost :  if  true,  what  a  debt 
immense  of  endless  gratitude  is  due  to  the  memory 
of  this  unobtrusive  and  amiable  woman  ! 


CHAPTER  XX. 

CAREW'S   CELIA. — LUCY   8ACHEVEREL. 

FROM  the  reign  of  Charles  the  First  may  be 
dated  that  revolution  in  the  spirit  and  form  of  our 
lyric  poetry,  which  led  to  its  subsequent  degrada- 
tion. The  first  Italian  school  of  poetry,  to  which 
we  owed  our  Surreys,  our  Spensers,  and  our  Mil- 
ton's, had  now  declined.  The  high  contemplative 
tone  of  passion,  the  magnanimous  and  chivalrous 
homage  paid  to  women,  gradually  gave  way  before 
the  French  taste  and  French  gallantry,  introduced, 
or  at  least  encouraged  and  rendered  fashionable, 
by  Henrietta  Maria  and  her  gay  household.  The 
muse  of  amatory  poetry  (I  presume  there  is  such  a 
Muse,  though  I  know  not  to  which  of  the  Nine  the 
title  properly  applies)  no  longer  walked  the  earth 
star-crowned  and  vestal-robed,  "  col  dir  pien  d* 
vntelletti,  dolci  ed  alti," — "  with  love  upon  her  lips, 
and  looks  commercing  with  the  skies  ;  " — she  suited 


264  CAREW'S   CELIA. 

her  garb  to  the  fashion  of  the  times,  and  tripped 
along  in  guise  of  an  Arcadian  princess,  half  regal, 
half  pastoral,  trailing  a  sheep-hook  crowned  with 
flowers,  and  sparkling  with  foreign  ornaments, 

Pale  glistening  pearls  and  rainbow-colored  gems. 

Then  in  the  "  brisk  and  giddy-paced  times "  of 
Charles  the  Second,  she  flaunted  an  airy  coquette, 
or  an  unblushing  courtesan,  ("  unveiled  her  eyes, 
— unclasped  her  zone;")  and  when  these  sinful 
doings  were  banished,  she  took  the  hue  of  the  new 
morals — new  fashions — new  manners, — and  we 
find  her  a  court  prude,  swimming  in  a  hoop  and 
red-heeled  shoes,  "  conscious  of  the  rich  brocade," 
and  ogling  behind  her  fan  :  or  else  in  the  opposite 
extreme,  like  a  bergere  in  a  French  ballet,  stuck 
over  with  sentimental  common-places  and  artificial 
flowers. 

This,  in  general  terms,  was  the  progress  of  the 
lyric  muse,  from  the  poets  of  Queen  Elizabeth's 
days  down  to  the  wits  of  Queen  Anne's.  Of  course, 
there  are  modifications  and  exceptions,  which  will 
suggest  themselves  to  the  poetical  reader ;  but  it 
does  not  enter  into  the  plan  of  this  sketch  to  treat 
matters  thus  critically  and  profoundly.  To  return 
then  to  the  days  of  Charles  the  First. 

It  must  be  confessed  that  the  union  of  Italian 
sentiment  and  imagination  with  French  vivacity 
and  gallantry,  was,  in  the  commencement,  exceed- 
ingly graceful,  before  all  poetry  was  lost  in  wit, 
and  gallantry  sunk  into  licentiousness. 


CAREW'S   CELIA.  266 

Carew,  one  of  the  first  who  distinguished  him- 
self in  this  style,  has  been  most  unaccountably 
eclipsed  by  the  reputation  of  Waller,  and  deserved 
better  than  to  have  had  his  name  hitched  into  line 
between  Sprat  and  Sedley  ; 

Sprat,  Carew,  Sedley,  and  a  hundred  more.* 

As  an  amatory  poet,  he  is  far  superior  to  Waller ; 
he  had  equal  smoothness  and  fancy,  and  much 
more  variety,  tenderness,  and  earnestness  ;  if  his 
love  was  less  ambitiously,  and  even  less  honorably 
placed,  it  was,  at  least,  more  deep  seated,  and  far 
more  fervent.  The  real  name  of  the  lady  he  has 
celebrated  under  the  poetical  appellation  of  Celia, 
is  not  known — it  is  only  certain  that  she  was  no 
"  fabled  fair," — and  that  his  love  was  repaid  with 
falsehood. 

Hard  fate !  to  have  been  once  possessed 

A  victor  of  a  heart, 
Achieved  with  labor  and  unrest, 

And  then  forced  to  depart ! 

From  the  irregular  habits  of  Carew,  it  is  possi- 
ble he  might  have  set  the  example  of  inconstancy 
and  yet  this  is  but  a  poor  excuse  for  her. 

Carew  spent  his  life  in  the  Court  of  Charles  the 
First,  who  admired  and  loved  him  for  his  wit  and 
amiable  manners,  though  he  reproved  his  libertin- 
age.  In  the  midst  of  that  dissipation,  which  haa 
polluted  some  of  his  poems,  he  was  full  of  high 

*  Pope. 


266  CAREW'S   CELIA. 

poetic  feeling,  and  a  truly  generous  lovor:  fop 
even  while  he  woos  his  fair  one  in  tho.  most  soul- 
moving  terms  of  flowery  adulation  and  tender  en- 
treaty, he  puts  her  on  her  guard  against  his  own 
arts,  and  thus  sweetly  pleads  against  himself ; 

Rather  let  the  lover  pine, 

Than  his  pale  cheek  should  assign 

A  perpetual  blush  to  thine ! 

And  his  admiration  of  female  chastity  is  else- 
where frequently,  as  well  as  forcibly  expressed. — 
With  all  his  elegance  and  tenderness,  Carew  ia 
never  feeble ;  and  in  his  laments  there  is  nothing 
whining  or  unmanly.  After  lavishing  at  the  feet 
of  his  mistress  the  most  passionate  devotion,  ai><J 
the  most  exquisite  flattery,  hear  him  rebuke  h*"* 
pride  with  all  the  spirit  of  an  offended  poet ! 

Know,  Celia!  since  thou  art  so  proud, 
'Twas  I  that  gave  thee  thy  renown; 

Thou  hadst  in  the  forgotten  crowd 
Of  common  beauties,  lived  unknown, 

Had  not  my  verse  exhaled  thy  name, 

And  with  it  impt  the  wings  of  fame. 

That  killing  power  is  none  of  thine, 

I  gave  it  to  thy  voice  and  eyes, 
Thy  sweets,  thy  graces,  all  are  mine. 

Thou  art  my  star — shin'st  in  my  skies ; 
Then  dart  not  from  thy  borrowed  sphere 
Light' ning  on  him,  who  fixed  thee  there. 

The  identity  of  his  Celia  is  now  lost  in  a  namt, 
— and  she  deserves  it :  perhaps  had  she  appre- 


CAREW'B   CELIA.  26? 

ciate<l  the  love  she  inspired,  and  been  true  to  that 
she  professed,  she  might  have  won  her  elegant 
lo\er  back  to  virtue,  and  wreathed  her  fame 
with  his  forever.  Disappointed  in  the  object  of 
his  idolatry,  Carew  plunged  madly  into  pleasure, 
and  thus  hastened  his  end.  He  died,  as  Clarendon 
tells  us,  with  "  deep  remorse  for  his  past  excesses, 
and  every  manifestation  of  Christianity  his  best 
friends  could  desire." 

Besides  his  Celia,  Carew  has  celebrated  several 
other  ladies  of  the  Court,  and  particularly  Lady 
Mary  Villars;  the  Countess  of  Anglesea;  Lady 
Carlisle,  the  theme  of  all  the  poets  of  her  age,  and 
her  lovely  daughter,  Lady  Anne  Hay,  on  whom 
he  wrote  an  elegy,  which  begins  with  some  lines 
never  surpassed  in  harmony  and  tenderness. 

I  heard  the  virgin's  sigh!    I  saw  the  sleek 

And  polish'd  courtier  channel  his  fresh  cheek 

With  real  tears;  the  new  betrothed  maid 

Smil'd  not  that  day;  the  graver  senate  laid 

Their  business  by ;  of  all  the  courtly  throng 

Grief  seal'd  the  heart,  and  silence  bound  the  tongue! 

***** 
We  will  not  bathe  thy  corpse  with  a  forc'd  tear, 
Nor  shall  thy  train  borrow  the  blacks  they  wear; 
Such  vulgar  spice  and  gums  embalm  not  thee, 
That  art  the  theme  of  Truth,  not  Poetry. 

Here  Carew  has  fallen  into  the  vulgar  error,  that 
poetry  and  fiction  are  synonymous. 
Lady  Anne   Wentworth,*  daughter  of  the  first 

*  The  only  daughter  of  this  Lady  Anne  Wentworth,  married 
Sir  W.  Noel,  and  was  the  ancestress  of  Lady  Byron,  the  widoif 
*I  the  uoet. 


>68  CAREW'S   CELIA. 

Earl  of  Cleveland,  who,  after  making  terrible 
havoc  in  the  heart  of  the  Lord  Chief  Justice 
Finch,  married  Lord  Lovelace,  is  another  of 
Carew's  fair  heroines.  For  her  marriage  he  wrote 
the  epithalamium, 

Break  not  the  slumbers  of  the  bride,  &c. 

As  Carew  is  not  a  popular  poet,  nor  often  found 
in  a  lady's  library,  I  add  a  few  extracts  of  peculiar 
peauty. 

TO  CELIA. 

Ask  me  no  more  where  Jove  bestows, 
When  June  is  past,  the  fading  rose; 
For  in  your  beauties'  orient  deep 
Those  flowers  as  in  their  causes  sleep 

Ask  me  no  more,  whither  do  stray 
The  golden  atoms  of  the  day; 
For  in  pure  love,  Heaven  did  prepare 
Those  powders  to  enrich  your  hair. 

Ask  me  no  more,  whither  doth  haste 
The  nightingale,  when  May  is  past; 
For  in  your  sweet  dividing  throat 
She  winters,  and  keeps  warm  her  note. 

Ask  me  no  more,  where  those  stars  light 
That  downwards  fall  in  dead  of  night; 
For  in  your  eyes  they  sit — and  there 
Fix'd  become  as  in  their  sphere. 

Ask  me  no  more,  if  east  or  west, 
The  phoenix  builds  her  spicy  nest; 


CAREW'S   CELIA.  269 

For  unto  you  at  last  she  flies, 
And  in  your  fragrant  bosom  dies. 


Ladies,  fly  from  Love's  smooth  tale. 
Oaths  steep' d  in  tears  do  oft  prevail; 
Grief  is  infectious,  and  the  air, 
Inflam'd  with  sighs,  will  blast  the  fair? 
Then  stop  your  ears  when  lovers  cry, 
Lest  yourself  weep,  when  no  soft  eye 
Shall  with  a  sorrowing  tear  repay 
The  pity  which  you  cast  away. 


And  when  thou  breath'st,  the  winds  are  ready  straight 
To  filch  it  from  thee ;  and  do  therefore  wait 
Close  at  thy  lips,  and  snatching  it  from  thence, 
Bear  it  to  heaven,  where  'tis  Jove's  frankincense. 
Fair  goddess,  since  thy  feature  makes  thee  one, 
Yet  be  not  such  for  these  respects  alone; 
But  as  you  are  divine  in  outward  view, 
So  be  within  as  fair,  as  good,  as  true. 


Hark !  how  the  bashful  morn  in  vain 

Courts  the  amorous  marigold 
With  sighing  blasts  and  weeping  vain; 

Yet  she  refuses  to  unfold. 
But  when  the  planet  of  the  day 
Approacheth  with  his  powerful  ray, 
Then  she  spreads,  then  she  receives, 
His  warmer  beams  into  her  virgin  leaves* 

So  shalt  thou  thrive  in  love,  fond  boy; 

If  thy  tears  and  sighs  discover 
Thy  grief,  thou  never  shalt  enjoy 

The  just  reward  of  a  bold  lover: 


270  LUCY   SACHEVEREL. 

But  when  with  moving  accents  thou 
Shall  constant  faith  and  service  vow, 
Thy  Celia  shall  receive  those  charms 
With  open  ears,  and  with  unfolded  arms. 
*  *  *  *  * 

The  gallant  and  accomplished  Colonel  Lovelace 
was,  I  believe,  a  relation  of  the  Lord  Lovelace  who 
married  Lady  Anne  Wentworth,  and  the  friend 
and  contemporary  of  Carew.  His  fate  and  history 
would  form  the  groundwork  of  a  romance  ;  and  in 
his  person  and  character  he  was  formed  to  be  the 
hero  of  one.  He  was  as  fearlessly  brave  as  a 
knight^errant ;  so  handsome  in  person,  that  he 
could  not  appear  without  inspiring  admiration ;  a 
polished  courtier;  an  elegant  scholar;  and  to 
crown  all,  a  lover  and  a  poet.  He  wrote  a  volume 
of  poems,  dedicated  to  the  praises  of  Lucy  Sache- 
verel,  with  whom  he  had  exchanged  vows  of  ever- 
lasting love.  Her  poetical  appellation,  according 
to  the  affected  taste  of  the  day,  was  Lucasta.  When 
the  civil  wars  broke  out,  Lovelace  devoted  his  life 
and  fortunes  to  the  service  of  the  King;  and  on 
joining  the  army,  he  wrote  that  beautiful  song  to 
his  mistress,  which  has  been  so  often  quoted, — 

Tell  me  not,  sweet,  I  am  unkind, 

That  from  the  nunnery 
Of  thy  chaste  breast  and  quiet  mind 

To  war  and  arms  I  fly. 

True,  a  new  mistress  now  I  chase, 
The  first  foe  in  the  field; 


LUCY   SACHEVEREL.  271 

And  with  a  stronger  faith  embrace 
A  sword,  a  horse,  a  shield. 

Yet  this  inconstancy  is  such 

As  you  too  shall  adore ; 
I  could  not  love  thee,  dear!  so  much, 

Lov'd  I  not  honor  more. 

The  rest  of  his  life  was  a  series  of  the  most  ernel 
misfortunes.  He  was  imprisoned  on  account  of 
ftis  enthusiastic  and  chivalrous  loyalty;  but  no 
dungeon  could  subdue  his  buoyant  spirit.  His  song 
"to  Althea  from  Prison,"  is  full  of  grace  and  ani- 
mation, and  breathes  the  very  soul  of  love  and 
honor. 

When  Love,  with  unconfined  wings, 

Hovers  within  my  gates, 
And  my  divine  Althea  brings 

To  whisper  at  the  grates ; 

When  I  lie  tangled  in  her  hair, 

And  fettered  to  her  eye, 
The  birds  that  wanton  in  the  air, 

Know  no  such  liberty. 

Stone  walls  do  not  a  prison  make, 

Nor  iron  bars  a  cage ; 
Minds  innocent  and  quiet  take 

That  for  a  hermitage. 

If  I  have  freedom  in  my  love, 

And  in  my  soul  am  free,— 
Angels  alone  that  soar  above 

Enjoy  such  liberty. 

Ix>velace  afterwards  commanded  a  regiment  at 


272  LUCY   SACHEVEREL. 

the  siege  of  Dunkirk,  where  he  was  severely,  and 
as  it  was  supposed,  mortally  wounded.  False  tid- 
ings of  his  death  were  brought  to  England ;  and 
when  he  returned,  he  found  his  Lucy  ("  O  most 
wicked  haste  !")  married  to  another;  it  was  a  blow 
he  never  recovered.  He  had  spent  nearly  his 
whole  patrimony  in  the  King's  service,  and  now 
became  utterly  reckless.  After  wandering  about 
London  in  obscurity  and  penury,  dissipating  his 
scanty  resources  in  riot  with  his  brother  cavaliers, 
and  in  drinking  the  health  of  the  exiled  King  and 
confusion  to  Cromwell,  this  idol  of  women  and  envy 
of  men, — the  beautiful,  brave,  high-born,  and  ac- 
complished Lovelace,  died  miserably  in  a  little  lodg- 
ing in  Shoe  Lane.  He  was  only  in  his  thirty- 
ninth  year. 

The  mother  of  Lucy  Sacheverel  was  Lucy, 
daughter  of  Sir  Henry  Hastings,  ancestor  to  the 
present  Marquis  of  Hastings.  How  could  she  so 
belie  her  noble  blood  ?  I  would  excuse  her  were  it 
possible,  for  she  must  have  been  a  fine  creature  to 
have  inspired  and  appreciated  such  a  sentiment  aa 
that  contained  in  the  first  song :  but  acts  cry  aloud 
against  her.  Her  plighted  hand  was  not  trans- 
ferred to  another,  when  time  had  sanctified  and 
mellowed  regret ;  but  with  a  cruel  and  unfeminine 
precipitancy.  Since  then  her  lover  has  bequeathed 
her  name  to  immortality,  he  is  sufficiently  avenged. 
Let  her  stand  forth  condemned  and  scorned  for- 
ever, as  faithless,  heartless — light  as  air,  false  aa 
water,  and  rash  as  fire. — I  abjure  her. 


// 

SACHARISSA.  • 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

WALLER'S  SACHARISSA. 

THE  courtly  Waller,  like  the  lady  in  the  Maids' 
'IVagedy,  loved  with  his  ambition, — not  with  his 
eyes  ;  still  less  with  his  heart.  A  critic,  in  desig- 
nating the  poets  of  that  time,  says  truly  that 
"  Waller  still  lives  in  Sacharissa  : "  he  lives  in  her 
name  more  than  she  does  in  his  poetry ;  he  gave  that 
name  a  charm  and  a  celebrity  which  has  survived 
the  admiration  his  verses  inspired,  and  which  has 
assisted  to  preserve  them  and  himself  from  oblivion. 
If  Sacharissa  had  not  been  a  real  and  an  interest- 
ing object,  Waller's  poetical  praises  had  died  with 
her,  and  she  with  them.  He  wants  earnestness ; 
his  lines  were  not  inspired  by  love,  and  they  give 
"  no  echo  to  the  seat  where  love  is  throned."  In- 
stead of  passion  and  poetry,  we  have  gallantry  and 
flattery ;  gallantry,  which  was  beneath  the  dignity 
of  its  object;  and  flattery,  which  was  yet  more  su- 
perfluous,— it  was  painting  the  lily  and  throwing 
perfume  on  the  violet. 

Waller's  Sacharissa  was  the  Lad}'  Dorothea 
Sydney,  the  eldest  daughter  of  the  Earl  of  Lei- 
cester, and  born  in  1620.  At  the  time  he  thought 
fit  to  make  her  the  object  of  his  homage  she  waij 
about  eighteen,  beautiful,  accomplished,  and  ad- 
mired. Waller  was  handsome,  rich,  a  wit,  and  fivo 

18 


374  SACHARISSA 

and  twenty.  He  had  ever  an  excellent  opinion  ol 
himself,  and  a  prudent  care  of  his  worldly  interests. 
He  was  a  great  poet,  in  days  wh'ea  Spenser  was 
forgotten,  Milton  neglected,  and  Pope  unborn. 
He  began  by  addressing  to  her  the  lines  r>n  her 
picture. 

Such  was  Philoclea  and  such  Doras'  flame,* 

Then  we  have  the  poems  written  at  Penshurst, — in 

this  strain,— 

Ye  lofty  beeches !  tell  this  matchless  dame, 

That  if  together  ye  fed  all  one  flame, 

It  could  not  equalize  the  hundredth  part 

Of  what  her  eyes  have  kindled  in  my  heart,  &c. 

The  lady  was  content  to  be  the  theme  of  a  fash 
ionable  poet :  but  when  he  presumed  farther,  she 
crushed  all  hopes  with  the  most  undisguised  aver- 
sion and  disdain  :  thereupon  he  rails, — thus,— 

To  thee  a  wild  and  cruel  soul  is  given, 

More  deaf  than  trees,  and  prouder  than  the  heaven; 

Love's  foe  profest !  why  dost  thou  falsely  feign 

Thyself  a  Sydney  ?     From  which  noble  strain 

He  sprung  that  could  so  far  exalt  the  name 

Of  love,  and  warm  a  nation  with  his  flame.f 

His  mortified  vanity  turned  for  consolation  to 
Amoret,  (Lady  Sophia  Murray,)  the  intimate  com- 
panion of  Sacharissa.  He  describes  the  friendship 
between  these  two  beautiful  girls  very  gracefully. 

*  Alluding  to  the  two  heroines  of  Sir  Philip  Sydney's  Arcadia, 
Sacharissa  was  the  grandniece  of  that  preux  chevalier,  and  hencn 
the  frequent  allusions  to  his  name  and  fame. 

t  Alluding  to  his  Philip  Sydney. 


8ACHARISSA.  275 

Tell  me,  lovely,  loving  pair! 

Why  so  kind,  and  so  severe? 
Why  so  careless  of  our  care 

Only  to  yourselves  so  dear? 
#  *  # 

Not  the  silver  doves  that  fly 

Yoked  to  Cytherea's  car; 
Not  the  wings  that  lift  so  high, 

And  convey  her  son  so  far, 

Are  so  lovely,  sweet  and  fair, 

Or  do  more  ennoble  love, 
Are  so  choicely  matched  a  pair, 

Or  with  more  consent  do  move. 

And  they  are  very  beautifully  contrasted    n  the 
lines  to  Amoret — 

If  sweet  Amoret  complains, 
I  have  sense  of  all  her  pains ; 
But  for  Sacharissa,  I 
Do  not  only  grieve,  but  die  I 

*  *  * 

'Tis  amazement  more  than  love, 
Which  her  radiant  eyes  do  move; 
If  less  splendor  wait  on  thine, 
Yet  they  so  benignly  shine, 
I  would  turn  my  dazzled  sight 
To  behold  their  milder  light. 

*  *  * 
Amoret !  as  sweet  and  good 
As  the  most  delicious  food, 
Which  but  tasted  does  impart 
Life  and  gladness  to  the  heart. 
Sacharissa's  beauty's  wine, 
Which  to  madness  doth  incline. 


270  8ACHARISSA. 

Such  a  liquor  as  no  brain 
That  is  mortal,  can  sustain. 

But  Lady  Sophia,  though,  of  a  softer  disposition, 
and  not  carrying  in  her  mild  eyes  the  scornful  and 
destructive  light  which  sparkled  in  those  of  Sacha- 
rissa,  was  not  to  be  "  be-rhymed "  into  love  any 
more  than  her  fair  friend.  She  applauded,  but  she 
repelled:  she  smiled,  but  she  was  cold.  Waller 
consoled  himself  by  marrying  a  city  widow,  worth 
thirty  thousand  pounds. 

The  truth  is,  that  with  all  his  wit  and  his  ele- 
gance of  fancy,  of  which  there  are  some  inimitable 
examples, — as  the  application  of  the  story  of 
Daphne,  and  of  the  fable  of  the  wounded  eagle . 
the  lines  on  Sacharissa's  girdle ;  the  graceful  little 
song,  "  Go,  lovely  Rose,"  to  which  I  need  only 
allude,  and  many  others, — Waller  has  failed  in 
convincing  us  of  his  sincerity.  As  Rosalind  says, 
"  Cupid  might  have  clapped  him  on  the  shoulder, 
but  we  could  warrant  him  heart  whole."  All  along 
our  sympathy  is  rather  with  the  proud  beauty,  than 
with  the  irritable  self-complacent  poet.  Sacharissa 
might  have  been  proud,  but  she  was  not  arrogant; 
her  manners  were  gentle  and  retiring  ;  and  her 
disposition  rather  led  her  to  shun  than  to  seek  pul> 
licify  and  admiration. 

Such  cheerful  modesty,  such  humble  state, 
Moves  certain  love,  but  with  as  doubtful  fate; 
As  when  beyond  our  greedy  reach,  we  see 
Inviting  fruit  on  too  sublime  a  tiee.* 

*  Lines  on  her  picture. 


SACHARIS8A.  271 

The  address  to  Sacharissa's  femme-de-chambre, 
beginning,  "  Fair  fellow-servant,"  is  not  to  be  com- 
pared with  Tasso's  ode  to  the  Countess  of  Scandi- 
Ano's  maid,  but  contains  some  most  elegant  lines. 

You  the  soft  season  know,  when  best  her  mind 
May  be  to  pity,  or  to  love  inclined :      \ 
In  some  well-chosen  hour  supply  his  fear, 
Whose  hopeless  love  durst  never  tempt  the  ear 
Of  that  stern  goddess ;  you,  her  priest,  declare 
What  offerings  may  propitiate  the  fair: 
Rich  orient  pearl,  bright  stones  that  ne'er  decay, 
Or  polished  lines,  that  longer  last  than  they. 
*  *  *     '         *  * 

But  since  her  eyes,  her  teeth,  her  lip  excels 
All  that  is  found  in  mines  or  fishes'  shells, 
Her  nobler  part  as  far  exceeding  these, 
None  but  immortal  gifts  her  mind  should  please. 

These  lines  impress  us  with  the  image  of  a  very 
imperious  and  disdainful  beauty ;  yet  such  was  not 
the  character  of  Sacharissa's  person  or  mind.*  Nor 
is  it  necessary  to  imagine  her  such,  to  account  for 
her  rejection  of  Waller,  and  her  indifference  to 
his  flattery.  There  was  a  meanness  about  the  man : 
he  wanted  not  birth  alone,  but  all  the  high  and  gen- 
erous qualities  which  must  have  been  required  to 
recommend  him  to  a  woman,  who,  with  the  blood 
and  the  pride  of  the  Sydneys,  inherited  their  large 
heart  and  noble  spirit.  We  are  not  surprised  when 
she  turned  from  the  poet  to  give  her  hand  to  Henry 

*  Sacharissa,  the  poetical  name  Waller  himself  gave  her,  sig 
tifies  sweetness. 


278  SACHARISSA. 

Spencer,  Earl  of  Sunderland,  one  of  the  most  iai 
teresting  and  heroic  characters  of  that  tiiae.  He 
was  then  only  nineteen,  and  she  was  about  the  same 
age.  This  marriage  was  celebrated  with  great 
splendor  at  Penshurst,  July  30,  1639. 
Waller,  who  had  professed  that  his  hope 

Should  ne'er  rise  higher 
Than  for  a  pardon  that  he.  dared  admire, 

pressed  forward  with  his  congratulations  in  verse 
and  prose,  and  wrote  the  following  letter,  full  of 
pleasant  imprecations,  to  Lady  Lucy  Sydney,  the 
younger  sister  of  Sacharissa:  It  will  be  allowed 
that  it  argues  more  wit  and  good-nature  than  love 
or  sorrow ;  and  that  he  was  resolved  that  the  willow 
should  sit  as  gracefully  and  lightly  on  his  brow,  as 
the  myrtle  or  the  bays. 

"  To  my  Lady  Lucy  Sydney,  on  the  marriage  of  my 
Lady  Dorothea,  her  sister." 

"  MADAM, — In  this  common  joy,  at  Penshurst,  I 
know  none  to  whom  complaints  may  come  less  un- 
seasonable than  to  your  Ladyship, — the  loss  of  a  bed- 
fellow being  almost  equal  to  that  of  a  mistress  ;  and 
therefore  you  ought,  at  least,  to  pardon,  if  you  con- 
sent not  to  the  imprecations  of  the  deserted,  which 
just  Heaven,  no  doubt,  will  hear. 

"  May  my  Lady  Dorothea,  if  we  may  yet  call  her 
so,  suffer  as  much,  and  have  the  like  passion,  for 
this  young  Lord,  whom  she  has  preferred  to  the 
test  of  mankind,  as  others  have  had  for  her  ;  and 


SACHARISSA.  279 

may  this  love,  before  the  year  come  about,  make 
her  taste  of  the  first  curse  imposed  on  womankind 
— the  pains  of  becoming  a  mother.  May  her  first- 
born be  none  of  her  own  sex,  nor  so  like  her,  but 
that  he  may  resemble  her  Lord  as  much  as  herself 

"  May  she,  that  always  affected  silence  and  re- 
tirednoss,  have  the  house  filled  with  the  noise  and 
number  of  her  children,  and  hereafter  of  her 
grandchildren,  and  then  may  she  arrive  at  that 
great  curse,  so  much  declined  by  fair  ladies, — old 
age.  May  she  live  to  be  very  old,  and  yet  seem 
young — be  told  so  by  her  glass — and  have  no  aches 
to  inform  her  of  the  truth:  and  when  she  shall 
appear  to  be  mortal,  may  her  Lord  not  mourn  for 
her,  but  go  hand-in-hand  with  her  to  that  place, 
where,  we  are  told,  there  is  neither  marrying  nor 
giving  in  marriage,  that,  being  there  divorced,  we 
may  all  have  an  equal  interest  in  her  again.  My 
revenge  being  immortal,  I  wish  that  all  this  may 
also  befall  their  posterity  to  the  world's  end  and 
afterwards. 

"  To  you,  Madam,  I  wish  all  good  things,  and 
that  this  loss  may,  in  good  time,  be  happily  supplied 
with  a  more  constant  bed-fellow  of  the  other  sex. 

"Madam,  I  humbly  kiss  your  hands,  and  beg 
pardon  for  this  trouble  from  ycur  Ladyship's  most 
humble  servant,  E.  WALLER." 

Lady  Sunderland  had  been  married  about  three 
years :  she  and  her  youthful  husband  lived  in  the 
tenderest  union,  and  she  was  already  the  hnppy 


280  SACHARISSA. 

mother  of  two  fair  infants,  a  son  and  a  daughter,— 
when  the  civil  wars  broke  out,  and  Lord  Sunder- 
land  followed  the  King  to  the  field.  In  the  Sydney 
papers  are  some  beautiful  letters  to  his  wife,  writ- 
ten from  the  camp  before  Oxford.  The  last  of 
these,  which  is  in  a  strain  of  playful  and  affection- 
ate gayety,  thus  concludes, — "  Pray  bless  Poppet 
for  me  !  *  and  tell  her  I  would  have  wrote  to  her, 
but  that,  upon  mature  deliberation,  I  found  it  un- 
civil to  return  an  answer  to  a  lady  in  another  char- 
acter than  her  own,  which  I  am  not  yet  learned 
enough  to  do. — I  beseech  you  to  present  his  service 
to  my  Lady,f  who  is  most  passionately  and  perfectly 
yours,  &c.  SUNDERLAND." 

Three  days  afterwards  this  tender  and  gallant 
heart  had  ceased  to  beat;  he  was  killed  in  the 
battle  of  Newbury,  at  the  age  of  three-and-twenty. 
His  unhappy  wife,  on  hearing  the  news  of  his 
death,  was  prematurely  taken  ill,  and  delivered 
of  an  infant,  which  died  almost  immediately  after 
its  birth.  She  recovered,  however,  from  a  danger- 
ous and  protracted  illness,  through  the  affectionate 
and  unceasing  attentions  of  her  mother,  Lady 
Leicester,  who  never  quitted  .her  for  several 
months.  Her  father  wrote  her  a  letter  of  condo- 
lence, which  would  serve  as  a  model  for  all  letters 

*  His  infant  daughter,  then  about  two  years  old,  afterward* 
Marchioness  of  Halifax. 

t  The  Countess's  mother,  Lady  Leicester,  who  was  then  *itb 
*er  at  Althorpe. 


SACHARISSA,  281 

on  /similar  occasions.  "  I  know,"  he  says.  "  that 
it  is  to  no  purpose  to  advise  you  not  to  grieve; 
'that  is  not  my  intention ;  for  such  a  loss  as  yours, 
cannot  be  received  indifferently  by  a  nature  so 
tender  and  sensible  as  yours,"  &c.  After  touching 
lightly  and  delicately  on  the  obvious  sources  of 
consolation,  he  reminds  her,  that  her  duty  to  the 
dead  requires  her  to  be  careful  of  herself,  and  not 
hazard  her  very  existence  by  the  indulgence  of 
grief.  "  You  offend  him  you  loved,  if  you  hurt 
that  person  whom  he  loved;  remember  how  ap- 
prehensive he  was  of  your  danger,  how  grieved 
for  any  thing  that  troubled  you  !  I  know  you 
lived  happily  together,  so  as  nobody  but  yourself 
could  measure  the  contentment  of  it.  I  rejoiced 
at  it,  and  did  thank  God  for  making  me  one  of  the 
means  to  procure  it  for  you,"  &c.* 

Those  who  have  known  deep  sorrow,  and  felt 
what  it  is  to  shrink  with  shattered  nerves  and  a 
wounded  spirit  from  the  busy  hand  of  consolation, 
fretting  where  it  cannot  heal,  will  appreciate  such 
a  letter  as  this. 

Lady  Sunderland,  on  her  recovery,  retired 
from  the  world,  and  centering  all  her  affections  in 
her  children,  seemed  to  live  only  for  them.  She 
resided,  after  her  widowhood,  at  Althorpe,  where 
she  occupied  herself  with  improving  the  house  and 
gardens.  The  fine  hall  and  staircase  of  that  noble 
leat,  which  are  deservedly  admired  for  their  archi- 

*  Sydney's  Memorials,  vol.  ii.  p.  271. 


282  SACHARISSA. 

teetural  beauty,  were  planned  and  erected  by  hei 
After  the  lapse  of  about  thirteen  years,  her  father, 
Lord  Leicester,  prevailed  on  her  to  choose  ono, 
from  among  the  numerous  suitors  who  sought  her 
hand ;  he  dreaded,  lest  on  his  death,  she  should  be 
left  unprotected,  with  her  infant  children,  in  those 
evil  times ;  and  she  married,  in  obedience  to  hia 
wish,  Sir  Robert  Smythe,  of  Sutton,  who  was  her 
second  cousin,  and  had  long  been  attached  to  her. 
She  lived  to  see  her  eldest  son,  the  second  Earl  of 
Sunderland,  a  man  of  transcendant  talents,  but 
versatile  principles,  at  the  head  of  the  government, 
and  had  the  happiness  to  close  her  eyes  before  he 
had  abused  his  admirable  abilities,  to  the  vilest 
purposes  of  party  and  court  intrigue.  The  Earl 
was  appointed  principal  Secretary  of  State  in  1682 ; 
his  mother  died  in  1683. 

There  is  a  fine  portrait  of  Sacharissa  at  Blen- 
heim, of  which  there  are  many  engravings.  It 
must  have  been  painted  by  Vandyke,  shortly  after 
her  marriage,  and  before  the  death  of  her  husband. 
If  the  withered  branch,  to  which  she  is  pointing, 
be  supposed  to  allude  to  her  widowhood,  it  must 
have  been  added  afterwards,  as  Vandyke  died  in 
1641,  and  Lord  Sunderland  in  1643.  In  the  gal- 
lery at  Althorpe,  there  are  three  pictures  of  thia 
celebrated  woman.  One  represents  her  in  a  hat, 
and  at  the  age  of  fifteen  or  sixteen,  gay,  girlish, 
and  blooming;  the  second  far  more  interesting, 
was  painted  about  the  time  of  her  first  marriage ; 
it  is  exceedingly  sweet  and  lady-like.  The  featurei 


6ACHAKISSA.  283 

are  delicate,  with  redundant  light  brown  hair, 
and  eyes  and  eye-brows  of  a  darker  hue ;  the  bust 
and  hands  very  exquisite  ;  on  the  whole,  however, 
the  high  breeding  of  the  face  and  hair  is  more  con- 
spicuous than  the  beauty  of  the  person.  These 
two  portraits  are  by  Vandyke ;  nor  ought  I  to  for- 
get to  mention  that  the  painter  himself  was  sup- 
posed to  have  indulged  a  respectful  but  ardent 
passion  for  Lady  Sunderland,  and  to  have  painted 
her  portrait  literally  con  amour.* 

A  third  picture  represents  her  about  the  time  of 
her  second  marriage ;  the  expression  wholly  changed 
— cold,  faded,  sad,  but  still  sweet-looking  and  deli- 
cate. One  might  fancy  her  contemplating  with  a 
sick  heart,  the  portrait  of  Lord  Sunderland,  the 
lover  and  husband  of  her  early  youth,  and  that  of 
her  unfortunate  but  celebrated  brother,  Algernon 
Sydney  ;  both  which  hang  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  gallery. 

The  present  Duke  of  Marlborough,  and  the 
present  Earl  Spencer,  are  the  lineal  descendants 
of  Waller's  Sacharissa. 

One  little  incident,  somewhat  prosaic  indeed, 
proves  how  little  heart  there  was  in  Waller's  poeti- 
cal attachment  to  this  beautiful  and  admirable 
woman.  When  Lady  Sunderland,  after  a  retire- 
ment of  thirty  years,  reappeared  in  the  co'irt  she 
had  once  adorned,  she  met  Waller  at  Lady  Whar- 
ton's,  and  addressing  him  with  a  smiling  courtesy, 
»h?  reminded  him  of  their  youthful  days : — "When,* 
*  See  State  Poems,  vol.  iii.  p.  396. 


284  SACHAKISSA. 

said  she,  "  will  you  write  such  fine  verses  on  me 
again  ?  " — "  Madam,"  replied  Waller,  "  when  your 
Ladyship  is  young  and  handsome  again."  This 
was  contemptible  and  coarse — the  sentiment  waa 
not  that  of  a  well-bred  or  a  feeling  man,  far  leas 
that  of  a  lover  or  a  poet, — no ! 

Love  is  not  love, 

That  alters  where  it  alteration  finds. 

One  would  think  that  the  sight  of  a  woman, 
whom  he  had  last  seen  in  the  full  bloom  of  youth 
and  glow  of  happiness, — who  had  endured,  since 
they  parted,  such  extremity  of  affliction  as  far 
more  than  avenged  his  wounded  vanity,  might 
have  awakened  some  tender  thoughts  and  called 
forth  a  gentler  reply.  When  some  one  expressed 
surprise  to  Petrarch,  that  Laura,  no  longer  young, 
had  still  power  to  charm  and  inspire  him,  he  ans- 
wered, "  Piaga  per  allentar  d'  arco  non  sana," — 
"  The  wound  is  not  healed  though  the  bow  be  un- 
bent." This  was  in  a  finer  spirit. 

Something  in  the  same  character,  as  his  reply 
to  Lady  Sunderland,  was  Waller's  famous  repartee, 
when  Charles  the  Second  told  him  that  his  linei 
on  Oliver  Cromwell  were  better  than  those  writ- 
ten on  his  royal  self.  "  Please  your  Majesty,  we 
poets  succeed  better  in  fiction  than  in  truth." 
Nothing  could  be  more  admirably  apropos,  more 
witty,  more  courtier-like;  it  was  only  false,  and  iu 
a  poor  time-serving  spirit.  It  showed  as  much 
meanness  of  soul  as  presence  of  mind.  What  true 
ooet,  who  felt  as  a  poot,  would  have  said  this  ? 


BEAUTIES   AND   POETS.  286 

CHAPTER  XXH. 

BEAUTIES   AND   POETS. 

NEARLY  contemporary  with  Waller's  Sacharissa 
lived  several  women  of  high  rank,  distinguished 
as  munificent  patronesses  of  poetry,  and  favorite 
themes  of  poets,  for  the  time  being.  There  was 
the  Countess  of  Pembroke,  celebrated  by  Ben 

Jon son, 

The  subject  of  alt  verse, 
Sydney's  sister,  Pembroke's  mother. 

There  was  the  famous  Lucy  Percy,  Countess  of 
Carlisle,  very  clever,  and  very  fantastic,  who 
aspired  to  be  the  Aspasia,  the  De  Rambouillet  of 
her  day,  and  did  not  quite  succeed.  She  was 
celebrated  by  almost  all  the  contemporary  poets, 
and  even  in  French,  by  Voiture.  There  was 
Lucy  Harrington,  Countess  of  Bedford,  who,  not- 
withstanding the  accusation  of  vanity  and  extrava- 
gance which  has  been  brought  against  her,  was  an 
amiable  woman,  and  munificently  rewarded,  in 
presents  and  pensions,  the  incense  of  the  poets 
around  her.  I  know  not  what  her  Ladyship  may 
have  paid  for  the  following  exquisite  lines  by  Ben 
Jonson ;  but  the  reader  will  agree  with  me,  tLat  it 
nould  not  have  been  too  much. 

ON  LUCY,   COUNTESS  OF  BEDFORD. 

This  morning,  timely  rapt  with  holy  fire, 
I  thought  to  form  unto  my  zealous  muse 


BEAUTIES    AND    POETS. 

What  kind  of  creature  I  could  most  desire 
To  honor,  serve,  and  love ;  as  poets  use : 

I  meant  to  make  her  fair,  and  free,  and  wise, 
Of  greatest  blood,  and  yet  more  good  than  great 

I  meant  the  day-star  should  not  brighter  rise, 
Nor  lend  like  influence  from  his  ancient  seat. 

I  meant  she  should  be  courteous,  facile,  sweet, 

Bating  that  solemn  vice  of  greatness,  pride  ; 
I  meant  each  softest  virtue  there  should  meet, 

Fit  in  that  softer  bosom  to  reside. 
Only  a  learned  and  a  manly  soul 

I  purpose'dher;  that  should,  with  even  powers, 
The  rock,  the  spindle,  and  the  shears  control 

Of  destiny,  and  spin  her  own  free  hours. 
Such  when  I  meant  to  feign,  and  wished  to  see, 
My  muse  bade  Bedford  write, — and  that  was  she. 

There  was  also  the  "beautiful  and  every  way 
excellent "  Lady  Anne  Rich,*  the  daughter-in-law 
of  her  who  was  so  loved  by  Sir  Philip  Sydney ; 
and  the  memorable  and  magnificent — but  some- 
what masculine — Anne  Clifford,  Countess  of  Cum- 
berland, Pembroke,  and  Dorset,  who  erected  monu- 
ments to  Spenser,  Drayton,  and  Daniel ;  and  above 
them  all,  though  living  a  little  later,  the  Queen 
herself,  Henrietta  Maria,  whose  feminine  caprices, 
French  graces,  and  brilliant  eyes,  rendered  her  a 

*  Daughter  of  the  first  Earl  of  Devonshire,  of  the  Cavendish 
!amily.  She  was  celebrated  by  Sidney  Godolphin  in  some  ve*y 
Bweet  lines,  which  contain  a  lovely  female  portrait.  Waller'i 
verses  on  her  sudden  death  are  remarkable  for  a  signal  instance 
of  the  pathos. 

•  That  horrid  word,  at  once  like  lightning  spread, 
Struck  all  our  ears,— the  Lady  Rick  is  dead  ! 


BEAUTIES    AND    POETS.  287 

splendid  and  fruitful  theme  for  the  poets  of 
Ihe  time.* 

There  was  at  this  time  a  kind  of  traffic  between 
rich  beauties  and  poor  poets.  The  ladies  who,  in 
earlier  ages,  were  proud  in  proportion  to  the 
quantity  of  blood  spilt  in  honor  of  their  charms, 
were  now  seized  with  a  passion  for  being  be- 
rhymed. Surrey,  and  his  Geraldine,  began  this 
taste  in  England  by  introducing  the  school  of 
Petrarch :  and  Sir  Philip  Sydney  had  entreated 
women  to  listen  to  those  poets  who  promised  them 
immortality, — "  For  thus  doing,  ye  shall  be  most 
fair,  most  wise,  most  rich,  most  every  thing  ! — ye 
shall  dwell  upon  superlatives :  "f  and  women  be- 
lieved accordingly.  In  spite  of  the  satirist,  I  do 
maintain,  that  the  love  of  praise  and  the  love  of 
pleasing  are  paramount  in  our  sex,  both  to  the  love 
of  pleasure  and  the  love  of  sway. 

This  connection  between  the  high-born  beauties 
and  the  poets  was  at  first  delightful,  and  honorable 
to  both ;  but  in  time  it  became  degraded  and 
abused.  The  fees  paid  for  dedications,  odes,  and 
sonnets,  were  any  thing  but  sentimental; — can  we 
wonder  if,  under  such  circumstances,  the  profession 
of  a  poet  "  was  connected  with  personal  abase- 
ment, which  made  it  disreputable  ?  "  J  or  that 
women,  while  they  required  the  tribute,  despised 
those  who  paid  it, — and  were  paid  for  i(  ? — not  in 

*  See  Waller,  Carew,  D'Avenant :  the  latter  has  paid  her  som« 
exquisite  compliments. 

t  Sir  Philip  Sydney's  Works,  "  Defence  of  Poesie  » 
t  Scott's  Life  of  Dryden,  p.  89. 


288  BEAUTIES    AND    POETS. 

sweet  looks,  soft  smiles,  and  kind  wishes,  but  with 
silver  and  gold,  a  cover  at  her  ladyship's  table 
"  below  the  salt,"  or  a  bottle  of  sack  from  my 
lord's  cellar.  It  followed,  as  a  thing  of  course, 
that  our  amatory  and  lyric  poetry  declined,  and 
instead  of  the  genuine  rapture  of  tenderness,  the 
glow  of  imagination,  and  all  "  the  purple  light  of 
love,"  we  have  too  often  only  a  heap  of  glittering 
and  empty  compliment  and  metaphysical  conceits. 
— It  was  a  miserable  state  of  things. 

It  must  be  confessed  that  the  aspiring  loves  of 
some  of  our  poets  have  not  proved  auspicious  even 
when  successful.  Dryden  married  Lady  Elizabeth 
Howard,  the  daughter  of  the  Earl  of  Berkshire : 
but  not  "  all  the  blood  of  all  the  Howards  "  could 
make  her  either  wise  or  amiable :  he  had  better 
have  married  a  milkmaid.  She  was  weak  in  intel- 
lect, and  violent  in  temper.  Sir  Walter  Scott 
observes,  very  feelingly,  that  "  The  wife  of  one 
who  is  to  gain  his  livelihood  by  poetry,  or  by  any 
labor  (if  any  there  be)  equally  exhausting,  must 
either  have  taste  enough  to  relish  her  husband's 
performances,  or  good-nature  sufficient  to  pardon 
his  infirmities."  It  was  Dryden's  misfortune,  that 
Lady  Elizabeth  had  neither  one  nor  the  other. 

Of  all  our  really  great  poets,  Dryden  is  the  one 
least  indebted  to  woman,  and  to  whom,  in  return, 
women  are  least  indebted :  he  is  almost  devoid  of 
sentiment  in  the  true  meaning  of  the  word. — "  His 
idea  of  the  female  character  was  low  ; "  his  homage 
to  beauty  was  not  of  that  kind  which  beauty  should 


BEAUTIES   AND   POFTR.  28S 

be  proud  to  receive.*  When  he  attempted  the 
praise  of  women,  it  was  in  a  strain  of  fulsome, 
far-fetched,  labored  adulation,  which  betrayed  his 
insincerity ;  but  his  genius  was  at  home  when  we 
were  the  subject  of  licentious  tales  and  coarse 
satire. 

It  was  through  this  inherent  want  of  refinement 
and  true  respect  for  our  sex,  that  he  deformed 
Boccaccio's  lovely  tale  of  Gismunda ;  and  as  the 
Italian  novelist  has  sins  enough  of  his  own  to 
answer  for,  Dryden  might  have  left  him  the  beauties 
of  this  tender  story,  unsullied  by  the  profane  coarse- 
ness ot  his  own  taste.  In  his  tragedies,  his  heroines 
on  stilts,  and  his  draw-cansir  heroes,  whine,  rant, 
strut  and  rage,  and  tear  passion  to  tatters — to  very 
rags ;  but  love,  such  as  it  exists  in  gentle,  pure, 
unselfish  bosoms — love,  such  as  it  glows  in  the  pages 
of  Shakspeare  and  Spenser,  Petrarch  and  Tasso, — 
such  love 

As  doth  become  mortality- 
Glancing  at  heaven, 

he  could  not  imagine  or  appreciate,  far  less  express 
or  describe.  He  could  portray  a  Cleopatra;  but 
he  could  not  conceive  a  Juliet.  His  ideas  of  our 
eex  seem  to  have  been  formed  from  a  profligate 
actress,f  and  a  silly,  wayward,  provoking  wife  ; 
and  we  have  avenged  ourselves, — for  Dryden  is 

*  With  the  exception  of  the  dedication  of  his  Palanron  and 
Arcite,  to  the  young  and  beautiful  Duchess  of  Ormonde.  (Lady 
Anne  Somerset,  daughter  of  the  Duke  of  Beaufort.) 

t  Mrs.  Reeves,  his  mistress  :  she  afterwards  became  a  nun 
19 


290  BEAUTIES    AND    POETS. 

not  the  poet  of  women;  and,  of  all  our  English 
classics,  is  the  least  honored  in  a  lady's  library. 

Dryden  was  the  original  of  the  famous  repartee 
to  be  found,  I  believe,  in  every  jest  book :  shortly 
after  his  marriage,  Lady  Elizabeth,  being  rather 
annoyed  at  her  husband's  very  studious  habits, 
wished  herself  a  look,  that  she  might  have  a  little 
more  of  his  attention — "  Yes,  my  dear,"  replied 
Dryden,  "  an  almanac." — "  Why  an  almanac  ?  " 
asked  the  wife  innocently. — "Because  then,  my 
clear,  I  should  change  you  once  a  year."  The 
laugh,  of  course,  is  on  the  side  of  the  wit ;  but 
Lady  Elizabeth  was  a  young  spoiled  beauty  of 
rank,  married  to  a  man  she  loved ;  and  her  wish, 
methinks,  was  very  feminine  and  natural :  if  it  was 
spoken  with  petulance  and  bitterness,  it  deserved 
the  repartee ;  if  with  tenderness  and  playfulness, 
the  wit  of  the  reply  can  scarcely  excuse  its  ill- 
nature. 

Addison  married  the  Countess  of  Warwick. 
Poor  man  !  I  believe  his  patrician  bride  did  every 
thing  but  beat  him.  His  courtship  had  been  long, 
timid,  and  anxious;  and  at  length,  the  lady  was 
persuaded  to  marry  him,  on  terms  much  like  those 
on  which  a  Turkish  Princess  is  espoused,  to  whom 
the  Sultan  is  reported  to  pronounce,  "  Daughter,  I 
give  thee  this  man  to  be  thy  slave."*  They  were 
only  three  years  married,  and  those  were  years  of 
bitterness. 

Young,    the    author    of   the   Night    Thoughts, 

*  Johnson's  Life  of  Addison. 


CONJUGAL   POETRY.  291 

married  Lady  Elizabeth  Lee,  the  daughter  of  the 
Earl  of  Litchfield,  and  grand-daughter  of  the  too 
famous,  or  more  properly,  infamous  Duchess  of 
Cleveland: — the  marriage  was  not  a  happy  one. 
J  think,  however,  in  the  last  two  instances,  the 
ladies  were  not  entirely  to  blame. 

But  these,  it  will  be  said,  are  the  wives  of  poets, 
not  the  loves  of  the  poets ;  and  the  phrases  are 
not  synonymous, — au  contraire.  This  is  a  question 
to  be  asked  and  examined ;  and  I  proceed  to  ex- 
amine it  accordingly.  But  as  I  am  about  to  take 
the  field  on  new  ground,  it  will  require  a  new 
chapter. 


CHAPTER 

CONJUGAL    POETRY. 

IF  it  be  generally  true,  that  love,  to  be  poetical, 
must  be  wreathed  with  the  willow  and  the  cypress, 
as  well  as  the  laurel  and  the  myrtle — still  it  is  not 
ahvays  true.  It  is  not,  happily,  a  necessary  con- 
iition,  that  a  passion,  to  be  constant,  must  be  un- 
fortunate ;  that  faithful  lovers  must  needs  be 
wretched  ;  that  conjugal  tenderness  and  "  domestic 
doings  "  are  ever  dull  and  invariably  prosaic.  The 
witty  invectives  of  some  of  OUT  poets,  whose  do- 
mestic misery  stung  them  into  satirists,  and  bla» 


292  CONJUGAL   POETRY. 

phemers  of  a  happiness  denied  to  them,  arc 
familiar  in  the  memory — ready  on  the  lips  of 
common-place  scoffers.  But  of  matrimonial  poetics, 
in  a  far  different  style:  we  have  instance  sufficient 
to  put  to  shame  such  heartless  raillery ;  that  there 
are  not  more,  is  owing  to  the  reason  which  Klop- 
stock  has  given,  when  writing  of  his  angelic  Meta. 
"  A  man,"  said  he,  "should  speak  of  his  wife  as 
seldom  and  with  as  much  modesty  as  of  himself." 

A  woman  is  not  under  the  same  restraint  in 
speaking  of  her  husband ;  and  this  distinction 
arises  from  the  relative  position  of  the  two  sexes. 
It  is  a  species  of  vain-glory  to  boast  of  a  possession ; 
but  we  may  exult,  unreproved,  in  the  virtues  of 
him  who  disposes  of  our  fate.  Our  inferiority  has 
here  given  to  us,  as  women,  so  high  and  dear  a 
privilege,  that  it  is  a  pity  we  have  been  so  seldom 
called  on  to  exert  it. 

The  first  instance  of  conjugal  poetry  Avhich 
occurs  to  me,  will  perhaps  startle  the  female  reader 
for  it  is  no  other  than  the  gallant  Ovid  himself. 
One  of  the  epistles,  written  during  his  banishment 
to  Pontus,  is  addressed  to  his  wife  Perilla,  and  very 
tenderly  alludes  to  their  mutual  affection,  and  to  the 
grief  she  must  have  suffered  during  his  absence. 

And  thou,  whom  young  I  left  when  leaving  Rome, 
Thou,  by  my  woes  art.  haply  old  become : 
Grant,  heaven !  that  such  I  may  behold  thy  face, 
And  thy  changed  cheek,  with  dear  loved  kisses  trace, 
Fold  thy  diminished  person,  and  exclaim, 
Kegret  for  me  has  thinned  this  beauteous  frame 


SENECA'S  PAULINA.  29  S 

Here  then  we  have  the  most  abandoned  libertine 
r>f  his  profligate  times  reduced  at  last  in  his  olo 
age,  in  disgrace  and  exile,  to  throw  himself,  foi 
sympathy  and  consolation,  into  the  arms  of  a  tendei 
and  amiable  wife^  and  this,  after  spending  his  life 
and  talents  in  deluding  the  tenderness,  corrupting 
the  virtue,  and  reviling  the  characters  of  women. 
In  truth,  half  a  dozen  volumes  in  praise  of  our 
sex  could  scarce  say  more  than  this. 

Every  one,  I  believe,  recollects  the  striking 
story  of  Paulina,  the  wife  of  Seneca.  When  the 
order  was  brought  from  Nero  that  he  should  die, 
she  insisted  upon  dying  with  him,  and  by  the  same 
operation.  She  accordingly  prepared  to  be  bled 
to  death ;  but  fainting  away  in  the  midst  of  her 
sufferings,  Seneca  commanded .  her  wounds  to  be 
bound  up,  and  conjured  her  to  live.  She  lived 
therefore ;  but  excessive  weakness  and  loss  of 
blood  gave  her,  during  the  short  remainder  of  her 
life  that  spectral  appearance  which  has  caused  her 
Conjugal  fidelity  and  her  pallid  hue  to  pass  into  a 
proverb, — "  as  pale  as  Seneca's  Paulina  ; "  and  be 
it  remembered,  that  Paulina  was  at  this  time  young 
in  comparison  of  her  husband,  who  was  old  and 
singularly  ugly. 

This  picturesque  story  of  Paulina  affects  us  in 
our  younger  years ;  but  at  a  later  period  we  are 
more  likely  to  sympathize  with  the  wife  of  Lucan, 
Polla  Argentaria,  who  beheld  her  husband  perish 
by  the  same  death  as  his  uncle  Seneca,  and  through 
love  for  his  fame,  consented  to  survive  him  She 


294  CONJUGAL    POETRY. 

appears  to  have  been  the  original  after  whom  he 
drew  his  beautiful  portrait  of  Cornelia  the  wife  of 
Pompey.  Lucan  had  left  the  manuscript  of  the 
Pharsalia  in  an  imperfect  state ;  and  his  wife  who 
had  been  in  its  progress  his  amanuensis,  his  coun- 
sellor and  confidant,  and  therefore  best  knew  his 
wishes  and  intentions,  undertook  to  revise  and 
copy  it  with  her  own  hand.  During  the  rest  of 
her  life,  which  was  devoted  to  this  dear  and  pious 
Uisk,  she  had  the  bust  of  Lucan  always  placed 
beside  her  couch,  and  his  works  lying  before  her : 
and  in  the  form  in  which  Polla  Argentaria  left  it 
his  great  poem  has  descended  to  our  times. 

I  have  read  also,  though  I  confess  my  acquaint- 
ance with  the  classics  is  but  limited,  of  a  certain 
Latin  poetess,  Sulpicia,  who  celebrated  her  husband 
Galenas :  and  the  poet  Ausonius  composed  many 
fine  verses  in  praise  of  a  beautiful  and  virtuous 
wife,  whose  name  I  forget.* 

But  I  feel  lam  treading  unsafe  ground,  rendered 
so  both  by  my  ignorance,  and  by  my  prejudices  as 
a  woman.  Generally  speaking,  the  heroines  of 
classical  poetry  and  history  are  not  much  to  my 
taste  ;  in  their  best  virtues  they  were  a  little  mas- 
culine, and  in  their  vices  so  completely  unsexed, 
that  one  would  rather  not  think  of  them — speak 
of  them — far  less  write  of  them. 

#  *  #  #  # 

The  earliest  instance  I  can  recollect  of  modem 
conjugal  poetry,  is  taken  from  a  country,  and  a 

*  Elton's  Specimens. 


oLOTILDB   DE    SUKV1LLK.  295 

class,  and  a  time  where  one  would  scarce  look  foi 
high  poetic  excellence  inspired  by  conjugal  ten- 
derness. It  is  that  of  a  Frenchwoman  of  high 
rank,  in  the  fifteenth  century,  when  France  was 
barbarized  by  the  prevalence  of  misery,  profligacy, 
and  bloodshed,  in  every  revolting  form. 

Marguerite-Eleonore-Clotilde  de  Surville,  of  the 
noble  family  of  Vallon  Chalys,  was  the  wife  of 
Berenger  de  Surville,  and  lived  in  those  disastrous 
times  which  immediately  succeeded  the  battle  of 
Agincourt.  She  was  born  in  1405,  and  educated 
in  the  court  of  the  Count  de  Foix,  where  she  gave 
an  early  proof  of  literary  and  poetical  talent,  by 
translating,  when  eleven  years  old,  one  of  Pe- 
trarch's Canzoni,  with  a  harmony  of  style  wonder- 
ful, not  only  for  her  age,  but  for  the  times  in  which 
she  lived.  At  the  age  of  sixteen  she  married  the 
Chevalier  du  Surville,  then,  like  herself,  in  the 
bloom  of  youth,  and.  to  whom  she  was  passionately 
attached.  In  those  days  no  man  of  noble  blood, 
who  had  a  feeling  for  the  misery  of  his  country,  or 
a  hearth  and  home  to  defend,  could  avoid  taking 
an  active  part  in  the  scenes  of  barbarous  strife 
around  him ;  and  De  Surville,  shortly  after  his 
marriage,  followed  his  heroic  sovereign,  Charles 
the  Seventh,  to  the  field.  During  his  absence,  his 
wife  addressed  to  him  the  most  beautiful  effusions 
of  conjugal  tenderness  to  be  found,  I  think,  in  the 
compass  of  poetry.  In  the  time  of  Clotilde, 
French  verse  was  not  bound  down  by  those 
severe  laws  and  artificial  restraints  by  which  it  has 


296  CONJUGAL    POETRY. 

since  been  shackled  :  we  have  none  of  the  pretti- 
nesses,  the  epigrammatic  turns,  the  sparkling  points, 
and  elaborate  graces,  which  were  the  fashion  in 
the  days  of  Louis  Quatorze.  Boileau  would  have 
shrugged  up  his  shoulders,  and  elevated  his  eye- 
brows, at  the  rudeness  of  the  style  ;  but  Moliere, 
who  preferred 

J'aime  mieux  ma  mie,  oh  gai ! 

to  all  the  fades  galanieries  of  his  contemporary  bek 
esprits,  would  have  been  enchanted  with  the  naive 
tenderness,  the  freshness  and  flow  of  youthful  feel- 
ing which  breathe  through  the  poetry  of  Clotilde. 
The  antique  simplicity  of  the  old  French  lends  it 
such  an  additional  charm,  that  though  in  making  a 
few  extracts,  I  have  ventured  to  modernize  the 
spelling,  I  have  not  attempted  to  alter  a  word  of 
the  original. 

Clotilde  has  entitled  her  first  epistle  "  Heroide  t» 
mon  epoux  Berenger ;  "  and  as  it  is  dated  in  1422, 
she  could  not  have  been  more  than  seventeen  when 
it  was  written.  The  commencement  recalls  the 
superscription  of  the  first  letter  of  Heloise  to  Abe- 
lard. 

Clotilde,  au  sien  ami,  douce  mande  accolade ! 

A  son  dpoux,  salut,  respect,  amour ! 
Ah,  tandis  qn'eplore'e  et  de  coeur  si  malade, 

Te  quier  *  la  nuit,  te  redemande  au  jour- — 
Qne  deviens  ?  oil  cours  tu  ?  Loin  de  ta  bien-aim<5«, 

Ou  les  destins,  entrainent  done  tes  pas  ? 

*  Querir. 


CLOTILDE    DE    SURVILLE.  297 

'Faut  que  le  dise,  helas !  s'eii  crois  la  renommtfe 
De  bien  long  temps  ne  te  revei-rai  pas? 

She  then  describes  her  lonely  state,  her  grief  foi 
his  absence,  her  pining  for  his  return.  She  laments 
the  horrors  of  war  which  have  torn  him  from  her ; 
but  in  a  strain  of  eloquent  poetry,  and  in  the  spirit 
of  a  high-souled  woman,  to  whom  her  husband's 
honor  was  dear  as  his  life,  she  calls  on  him  to  per- 
form all  that  his  duty  as  a  brave  knight,  and  his 
loyalty  to  his  sovereign  require.  She  reminds  him, 
with  enthusiasm,  of  the  motto  of  French  chivalry, 
"  mourir  plutdt  que  trahir  son  devoir ; "  then  sud- 
denly breaking  off,  with  a  graceful  and  wife-like 
modesty,  she  wonders  at  her  own  presumption  thus 
to  address  her  lord,  her  husband,  the  son  of  a  race 
of  heroes, — ' 

Mais  que  dis !  ah  d'ou  vient  qu'orgueilleuse  t'advise! 

Toi,  escolier!  toi,  1'enfant  des  heros! 
Pardonne  maintes  soucis  a  celle  qui  t'adore — 

A  tant  d' amour,  est  permis  quelque  effroi. 

She  describes  herself  looking  out  from  the  tower 
of  her  castle  to  watch  the  return  of  his  banner ; 
»he  tells  him  how  she  again  and  again  visits  the 
scenes  endeared  by  the  remembrance  of  their  mu- 
tual happiness.  The  most  beautiful  touches  of  de- 
scription are  here  mingled  with  the  fond  expres- 
sions of  feminine  tenderness. 

La,  me  dis-je,  ai  re?u  sa  derniere  caresse, 
Et  jusqu'aux  os,  soudain,  me  sens  bruler. 


298  CONJUGAL   POETRY. 

lei  les  ung  ormeil,  cercld  par  aubespme 
Que  doux  printemps  ja  *  courronnait  de  flenrs, 

Me  dit  adieu — Sauglots  suffoquent  ma  poctrine, 

Et  dans  mes  yeux  roulent  torrents  de  pleurs. 

***** 

D'autresfois,  dcartant  ces  cruelles  images, 

Crois  m'enfoiiQant  au  plus  dense  des  bois, 
Meier  des  rossignols  aux  amoureuse  ramages, 

Entre  tes  bras,  mon  amoureux  voix : 
Me  semble  ouir,  dchappant  de  ta  bouche  rose*e, 

Ces  mots  gentils,  qui  me  font  tressaillir, 
Ainz  f  vois  au  m6me  instant  que  me  suis  abusee 

Et  soupirant,  suis  prete  a  deTailler! 

After  indulging  in  other  regrets,  expressed  witn 
rather  more  naivete  than  suits  the  present  taste, 
she  bursts  into  an  eloquent  inveotive  against  the 
English  invaders,^  and  the  factious  nobles  of 
France,  whose  crimes  and  violence  detained  her1 
husband  from  her  arms. 

Quand  reverrai,  dis-moi,  ton  si  duisant  §  visage  ? 

Quand  te  pourrai  face  a  face  mirer  ? 
T'enlacer  tellement  a  mon  frement  ||  corsage, 

Que  toi,  id  moi,  n'en  puisjsions  respirer? 

and  she  concludes  with  this  tender  envoi: 

Ou,  que  suives  ton  roi,  ne  mets  ta  douce  amie 
En  tel  oubli,  qu' ignore  ou  git  ce  lieu: 

Jusqu'alors  en  souci,  de  calme  n'aura  mie, — 
Plus  ne  t'en  dis — que  t'en  souvienne!  adieu! 

*  Ji— jadis  (the  old  French  ja  is  the  Italian  gid.) 

t  Ainz: — cependant  (the  Italian  anzi.) 

t  She  calls  them  the  "  Vultures  of  Albion." 

$  Duisant,  seduisant.  \\  Fremissant 


CLOTILDE    DE    -JURVILLE,  299 

Clotilde  became  a  mother  before  the  return  of 
her  husband ;  and  the  delicious  moment  in  which 
she  first  placed  her  infant  in  his  father's  arms,  sug- 
gested the  verses  she  has  entitled  "  Ballade  k  mon 
rpoux,  lors,  quand  tournait  apres  un  an  d'absenco, 
mis  en  ses  bras  notre  fils  enfancon." 

The  pretty  burden  of  this  little  ballad  has  ofton 
Deen  quoted. 

Faut  etre  deux  pour  avoir  du  plaisir, 
Plaisir  ne  I'est  qu'autant  qu'on  le  partage! 

But,  says  the  mother, 

r*h  tiers  si  doux  ne  fait  tort  k  plaisir? 

and  should  her  husband  be  again  torn  from  her, 
she  will  console  herself  in  his  absence,  by  teaching 
the  boy  to  lisp  his  father's  name. 

Gentil  e"poux!  si  Mars  et  ton  courage 
Plus  contraignaient  ta  Clotilde  a  ge"mir, 

De  lui  montrer  en  son  petit  langage, 
A  t'appeller  ferai  tout  mon  plaisir — 

Plaisir  ne  Test  qu'autant  qu'on  le  partage! 

Among  some  other  little  poems,  which  place  the 
conjugal  and  maternal  character  of  Clotilde  in  a 
most  charming  light,  I  must  notice  one  more  for  its 
tender  and  'heart- felt  beauty.  It  is  entitled  "  Bal- 
lade k  mon  premier  ne,"  and  is  addressed  to  her 
child,  apparently  in  the  absence  of  its  father 

O  cher  enfantelet,  vrai  portrait  de  ton  pere! 
Dors  sur  le  sein  »rue  ta  bouche  a  presse"! 


500  CONJUGAL   POETRY. 

Dors  petit ! — clos,  ami,  sur  le  sein  de  ta  mere, 
Tien  doux  oeillet,  par  le  somme  oppi'esse". 

Bel  ami — cher  petit !  que  ta  pupille  tendre, 
Goute  un  sommeil  que  plus  n'est  fait  pour  moi: 

Je  veille  pour  te  voir,  te  nourir,  te  defendre, 
Ainz  qu'il  est  doux  ne  veiller  que  pour  toil 

Contemplating  him  asleep,  she  says, 

N'e"tait  ce  teint  fleuri  des  couleurs  de  la  pomme, 
Ne  le  diriez  vous  dnns  les  bras  de  la  mort? 

Then,  shuddering  at  the  idea  she  had  conjured  up, 
she  breaks  forth  into  a  passionate  apostrophe  to  her 
sleeping  child, 

Arrete,  cher  enfant!  j'en  frdmis  toute  entiere — 

Reveille  toi !  chasse  un  fatal  propos ! 
Mon  fils  .  .  .  pour  un  moment — ah  revois  la  lumiere ! 

Au  prix  du  tien,  rends-moi  tout  mon  re"pos ! 
Douce  erreur!  il  dormait .  .  .  c'est,  assez,  je  respire. 

Songes  legers,  flattez  son  doux  sommeil; 
Ah!  quand  verrai  celui  pour  qui  mon  coeur  soupire, 

Au  miens  cote's  jouir  de  son  re*veil  V 

***** 
Quand  reverrai  celui  dont  as  recu  la  vie? 

Mon  jeune  e"poux,  le  plus  beau  des  humains 
Oui — dej'a  crois  voir  ta  mere,  aux  cieux  ravie, 

Que  tends  vers  lui  tes  innocentes  mains. 
Comme  ira  se  duisant  a  ta  premiere  caresse  ! 

Au  miens  baisers  com'  t'ira  disputant! 
Ainz  ne  compte,  a  toi  seul,  d'dpuiser  sa  tendresse,— 

A  sa  Clotilde  en  garde  bien  autant! 

Along  the  margin  of  the  original  MS.  of  thil 
poem,  was  written  an  additional  stanza,  in  the  same 
hand,  and  quite  worthy  of  the  rest 


CLOTILDE  DE  SURVILLE.        301 

Voila  ses  traits  . . .  son  air . . .  voila  tout  ce  que  j'aimel 
Feu  de  son  oeil,  et  roses  de  son  teint .... 

D'ou  vient  m'en  dbahir?  autre  qu'en  tout  lui  meme, 
Put-il jaiiuus  cclore  demon  sein? 

Tliis  is  beautiful  and  true  ;  beautiful,  because  it 
is  true.  There  is  nothing  of  fancy  nor  of  art,  the 
intense  feeling  gushes,  warm  and  strong,  from  the 
heart  of  the  writer,  and  it  comes  home  to  the  heart 
of  the  reader,  filling  it  with  sweetness. — Am  I 
wrong  in  supposing  that  the  occasional  obscurity  of 
the  old  French  will  not  disguise  the  beauty  of  the 
sentiment  from  the  young  wife  or  mother,  whose 
eye  may  glance  over  this  page  ? 

It  is  painful,  it  is  pitiful,  to  draw  the  veil  of  death 
and  sorrow  over  this  sweet  picture. 

What  is  this  world  ?  what  asken  men  to  have  ? 
Now  with  his  love — now  in  his  cold  grave, 
Alone,  withouten  any  companie  !* 

De  Surville  closed  his  brief  career  of  happiness 
and  glory  (and  what  more  than  these  could  he 
have  asked  of  Heaven  ?)  at  the  siege  of  Orleans, 
where  he  fought  under  the  banner  of  Joan  of 
Arc.  f  He  was  a  gallant  and  a  loyal  knight ;  so 
were  hundreds  of  others  who  then  strewed  the  des- 
olated fields  of  France :  and  De  Surville  had  fallen 
undistinguished  amid  the  general  havoc  of  all  that 
was  noble  and  brave,  if  the  love  and  genius  of  hia 
wife  had  not  immortalized  him. 

Clotilde,  after  her  loss,  resided  in  the  chateau 

*  Chaucer. 

t  He  perished  in  1429,  leaving  his  widow  in  her  twenty-fourth 


502  CONJUGAL   POETRY 

of  her  husband,  in  the  Lyonnois,  devoting  herself 
to  literature  and  the  education  of  her  son :  and 
it  is  very  remarkable,  considering  the  times  in 
which  she  lived,  that  she  neither  married  again,  nor 
entered  a  religious  house.  The  fame  of  her  poeti- 
cal talents,  which  she  continued  to  cultivate  in  her 
retirement,  rendered  her  at  length,  an  object  <A 
celebrity  and  interest.  The  Duke  of  Orleans  hap- 
pened one  day  to  repeat  some  of  her  verses  to  Mar- 
garet of  Scotland,  the  first  wife  of  Louis  the  Elev- 
enth; and  that  accomplished  patroness  of  poetry 
and  poets  wrote  her  an  invitation  to  attend  her  at 
court,  which  Clotilde  modestly  declined.  The 
Queen  then  sent  her,  as  a  token  of  her  admiration 
and  friendship,  a  wreath  of  laurel,  surmounted  with 
a  bouquet  of  daisies,  (Marguerites,  in  allusion  to 
tlve  name  of  both,)  the  leaves  of  which  were 
wrought  in  silver  and  the  flowers  in  gold,  with  this 
inscription  :  "  Marguerite  d'Ecosse  k  Marguerite 
d'Helicon."  We  are  told  that  Alain  Chartier,  en- 
vious perhaps  of  these  distinctions,  wrote  a  satiiical 
quatrain,  in  which  he  accused  Clotilde  of  being  de- 
ficient in  Pair  de  cour,  and  that  she  replied  to  him, 
and  defended  herself  in  a  very  spirited  rondeau, 
Nothing  more  is  known  of  the  life  of  this  interest- 
ing woman,  but  that  she  had  the  misfortune  to  sur- 
vive her  son  as  well  as  her  husband ;  and  dying  at 
the  advanced  age  of  ninety,  in  1495,  she  was 
buried  with  them  in  the  same  tomb.* 

*  Les  Poiites  Fran^ais  jusqu'i  Malherbes,  par  Augin.    A  good 
edition  of  the  works  of  Clotilde  de  Sutdlle  was  published  *t 


VITTORIA   COLO 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

CONJUGAL  POETRY,   CONTINUED. 

/ 

VITTORIA  COLONNA. 

HALF  a  century  later,  we  find  the  name  of  ar< 
Italian  poetess,  as  interesting  as  our  Clotilde  da 
Surville,  and  far  more  illustrious.  Vittoria  Colonna 
was  not  thrown,  with  all  her  eminent  gifts  and  cap  ' 
tivating  graces,  among  a  rude  people  in  a  rude  age ; 
but  all  favorable  influences,  of  time  and  circum- 
stances, and  fortune,  conspired,  with  native  talent, 
to  make  her  as  celebrated  as  she  was  truly  admir- 
able. She  was  the  wife  of  that  Marquis  of  Pes- 
cara,  who  has  earned  himself  a  name  in  the  busiest 
and  bloodiest  page  of  history : — of  that  Pescara 
who  commanded  the  armies  of  Charles  the  Fifth  in 
Italy,  and  won  the  battle  of  Pavia,  where  Francis 
the  First  was  taken  prisoner.  But  great  as  was 
Pescara  as  a  statesman  and  a  military  commander, 
he  is  far  more  interesting  as  the  husband  of  Vitto- 
ria Colonna ;  and  the  laurels  he  reaped  in  the  battle- 
Paris  in  1802,  and  another  in  1804.  I  believe  both  have  become 
scarce.  Her  PoSsies  consist  of  pastorals,  ballads,  songs,  epistles, 
and  the  fragment  of  an  epic  poem,  of  which  the  MS.  is  lost.  Of 
her  merit  there  is  but  one  opinion.  She  is  confessedly  the  great- 
est poetical  genius  which  France  could  boast,  in  a  period  of  two 
hundred  years ;  that  is,  from  the  decline  of  ihe  Provencal  poe 
try,  till  about  1500. 


304  CONJUGAL    POETRY. 

field,  are  perishable  and  worthless,  compared  to 
those  which  his  admirable  wife  wreathed  around  his 
brow.  So  thought  Ariosto ;  who  tells  us,  that  if 
Alexander  envied  Achilles  the  fame  he  had  ac- 
quired in  the  songs  of  Homer,  how  much  more  had 
he  envied  Pescara  those  strains  in  which  his  gifted 
consort  had  exalted  his  fame  above  that  of  all  con- 
temporary heroes  ?  and  not  only  rendered  herself 
immortal ; 

Col  dolce  stil,  di  che  il  miglior  non  odo, 
Ma  pu6  qualunque,  di  cui  parli  o  scriva 
Trar  dal  sepolcro,  e  fa  ch'  eterno  viva. 

He  prefers  her  to  Artemisia,  for  a  reason  rathe* 
quaintly  expressed, — 

Anzi 

Tanto  maggior,  quanto  e  piu  assai  bell'  opra. 
Che  por  sotterra  un  uom,  trarlo  di  sopra. 

"  So  much  more  praise  it  is,  to  raise  a  man  above 
the  earth,  than  to  bury  him  under  it."  He  com- 
pares her  successively  to  all  the  famed  heroines  of 
Greece  and  Rome, — to  Laodamia,  to  Portia,  to 
Arria,  to  Argia,  to  Evadne, — who  died  with  or  for 
their  husbands ;  and  concludes, 

Quanto  onore  a  Vittoria  e  piu  dovuto 
Che  di  Lete,  e  del  Rio  die  nove  volte 
L'  ombre  circonda,  ha  tratto  il  suo  consorte, 
Malgrado  delle  parche,  e  della  inorte.* 

In  fact,  at  a  period  when  Italy  could  boast  of  a 

*  Orlando  Furioso,  canto  37. 


VITTORIA   COLONNA.  305 

constellation  of  female  talent,  such  as  never  before 
or  since  adorned  any  one  country  at  the  same  time, 
and  besides  a  number  of  women  accomplished  in 
languages,  philosophy,  and  the  abstruser  branches 
of  learning,  reckoned  sixty  poetesses,  nearly  con- 
temporary, there  was  not  one  to  be  compared  with 
Vittoria  Colonna, — herself  the  theme  of  song ;  and 
upon  whom  her  enthusiastic  countrymen  have  lav- 
ished all  the  high-sounding  superlatives  of  a  lan- 
guage, so  rich  in  expressive  and  sonorous  epithets, 
that  it  seems  to  multiply  fame  and  magnify  praise. 
We  find  Vittoria  designated  in  Italian  biography,  as 
Diva,  divina,  maravigliosa,  eletissima,  illustrissima, 
virtuosissima,  dottissima,  castissima,  gloriosissima, 
&c. 

But  immortality  on  earth,  as  in  heaven,  must  be 
purchased  at  a  certain  price ;  and  Vittoria,  rich  in 
all  the  gifts  which  heaven,  and  nature,  and  fortune 
combined,  ever  lavished  on  one  of  her  sex,  paid 
for  her  celebrity  with  her  happiness ;  for  thus  it  has 
ever  been,  and  must  ever  be,  in  this  world  of  ours, 
"  oft  les  plus  belles  choses  ont  le  pire  destin." 

Her  descent  was  illustrious  on  both  sides.  She 
was  the  daughter  of  the  Grand  Constable  Fabrizio 
Colonna,  and  of  Anna  di  Montefeltro,  daughter  of 
the  Duke  of  Urbino,  and  was  born  about  1490.  At 
four  years  old  she  was  destined  to  seal  the  friend- 
ship which  existed  between  her  own  family  and 
that  of  d'Avalo,  by  a  union  with  the  young  Count 
d' Aval  :>,  afterwards  Marquis  of  Pescara,  who  was 
exactly  her  own  age.  Such  infant  marriages  are 
20 


306  CONJUGAL   POETRY. 

contracted  at  a  fearful  risk ;  yet,  if  auspicious,  the 
habit  of  loving  from  an  early  age,  and  the  feeling 
of  settled  appropriation,  prevent  the  affections  from 
wandering,  and  plant  a  mutual  happiness  upon  a 
foundation  much  surer  than  that  of  fancy  or  im- 
pulse. It  was  so  in  this  instance, 

Conforms  era  1'  etate 

Ma  '1  pensier  piu  conforms. 

Vittoria,  from  her  childish  years,  displayed  the 
most  extraordinary  talents,  combined  with  all  the 
personal  charms  and  sweet  proprieties  more  char- 
acteristic of  her  sex.  When  not  more  than  fifteen 
or  sixteen,  she  was  already  distinguished  among 
her  countrywomen,  and  sought  even  by  sovereign 
prinres.  The  Duke  of  Savoy  and  the  Duke  of 
Braganza  made  overtures  to  obtain  her  hand  ;  the 
Pope  himself  interfered  in  behalf  of  one  of  these 
princes;  but  both  were  rejected.  Vittoria,  ac- 
customed to  consider  herself  as  the  destined  bride 
of  young  d'Avalo,  cultivated  for  Mm  alone  those 
talents  and  graces,  which  others  admired  and 
coveted,  and  resolved  to  wait  till  her  youthful 
lover  was  old  enough  to  demand  the  ratification  of 
their  infant  vows.  She  says  of  herself, 

Appenaavean  gli  spirti  intera  vita. 

Quando  il  mio  cor  proscrisse  ogn'  altro  oggetto. 

Pescara  had  not  the  studious  habits  or  literary 
talents  of  his  betrothed  bride ;  but  his  beauty  of 
person,  his  martial  accomplishments,  and  his  brave 
m^  noble  nature,  were  precisely  calculated  to 


V1TTORIA    COLONNA.  807 

impress  her  poetical  imagination,  as  contrasted 
with  her  own  gentler  and  more  contemplative 
character.  He  loved  her  too  with  the  most  enthusi- 
astic adoration ;  he  even  prevailed  on  their  mutual 
parents  to  anticipate  the  period  fixed  for  their 
nuptials;  and  at  the  age  of  seventeen  they  were 
aolemnly  united. 

The  first  four  years  after  their  marriage  were 
chiefly  spent  in  a  dejightful  retreat  in  the  island 
of  Ischia,  where  Pescara  had  a  palace  and  domain. 
Here,  far  from  the  world,  and  devoted  to  each 
other,  and  to  the  most  elegant  pursuits,  they  seem 
to  have  revelled  in  such  bliss  as  poets  fancy  and 
romancers  feign.  Hence  the  frequent  allusions  to 
the  island  of  Ischia,  in  Vittoria's  later  poems,  as  a 
spot  beloved  by  her  husband,  and  the  scene  of 
their  youthful  happiness.  One  thing  alone  was 
wanting  to  complete  this  happiness  :  Heaven  denied 
them  children.  She  laments  this  disappointment 
in  the  22d  Sonnet,  where  she  says,  that  "  since  she 
may  not  be  the  mother  of  sons,  who  shall  inherit 
their  father's  glory,  yet  she  will  at  least,  by  uniting 
her  name  with  his  in  verse,  become  the  mother  of 
his  illustrious  deeds  and  lofty  fame." 

Pescara,  whose  active  and  martial  genius  led 
him  to  take  a  conspicuous  part  in  the  wars  which 
then  agitated  Italy,  at  length  quitted  his  wife  to 
join  the  army  of  the  Emperor.  Vittoria,  with 
tears  resigned  him  to  his  duty.  On  his  departure 
she  presented  him  with  many  tokens  of  love,  and 
among  the  rest,  with  a  banner,  and  a  dressing- 


808  CONJUGAL   POETRY. 

gown  ricnly  embroidered;  on  the  latter  she  had 
worked  with  her  own  hand,  in  silken  cl  aracters 
the  motto,  "  Nunquam  minus  otiosus  quam  cum 
otiosus  erat."*  She  also  presented  him  with  some 
branches  of  palm,  "  In  segno  di  felice  augurio ; " 
but  her  bright  anticipations  were  at  first  cruelly 
disappointed.  Pescara,  then  in  his  twenty-second 
year,  commanded  as  general  of  cavalry  at  the 
battle  of  Ravenna,  where  he-  was  taken  prisoner, 
and  detained  at  Milan.  While  in  confinement,  he 
.amused  his  solitude  by  showing  his  Vittoria  that  he 
had  not  forgotten  their  mutual  studies  and  early 
happiness  at  Ischia.  He  composed  an  essay  or 
dialogue  on  Love,  which  he  addressed  to  her ;  and 
which,  we  are  told,  was  remarkable  for  its  eloquence 
and  spirit  as  a  composition,  as  well  as  for  the  most 
high-toned  delicacy  of  sentiment.  He  was  not 
liberated  till  the  following  year. 

Vittoria  had  taken  for  her  devise,  such  was  the 
fashion  of  the  day,  a  little  Cupid  within  a  circle 
formed  by  a  serpent,  with  the  motto,  "  Quern 
peperit  virtus  prudentia  servet  amorem," — "  The 
love  which  virtue  inspired,  discretion  shall  guard;" 
and  during  her  husband's  absence,  she  lived  in 
retirement,  principally  in  her  loved  retreat  in  the 
island  of  Ischia,  devoting  her  time  to  literature, 
and  to  the  composition  of  those  beautiful  Sonnets 
in  which  she  celebrated  the  exploits  and  virtues  of 
her  husband.  He,  whenever  his  military  or  po- 
litical duties  allowed  of  a  short  absence  from  the 
*  "  Never  less  idle  than  when  idle." 


VJTTORIA    COLONNA.  804 

theatre  of  war,  flew  to  rejoin  her;  and  these  short 
and  delicious  meetings,  and  the  continual  dangers 
to  which  he  was  exposed,  seem  to  have  kept  alive, 
through  m?ny  long  years,  all  the  romance  and 
fervor  of  their  early  love.  In  the  79th  Sonu^ 
Vittoria  so  beautifully  alludes  to  one  of  t)  ese 
meetings,  that  I  am  tempted  to  extract  it,  in  prr  ter- 
ence  to  others  better  known,  and  by  many  estee  ned 
superior  as  compositions. 

Qui  fece  il  mio  bel  sol  a  noi  ritorno, 
Di  Regie  spoglie  carco,  e  ricche  prede; 
Ahi !  con  quanto  dolor,  1'occhio  rivede 
Quei  lochi,  ov'  ei  mi  fea  gia  il  giorno ! 

Di  mille  glorie  allor  cinto  d'  intorno, 
E  d'  onor  vero,  alia  piu  altiera  sede 
Facean  delle  opre  udite  intera  fede 
L'  ardito  volto,  il  parlar  saggio  adorno. 

Vinto  da  prieghi  miei,  poi  mi  mostrava 
Le  belle  cicatrici,  e  '1  tempo,  e  '1  modo 
Delle  vittorie  sue  tante,  e  si  chiare. 

Quanta  pena  or  mi  da,  gioja  mi  dava; 

E  in  questo,  e  in  quel  pensier,  piangend  godo 
Tra  poche  dolci,  e  assai  lagrime  amare. 

This  description  of  her  husband  returning,  loaded 
with  spoils  and  honors; — of  her  fond  admiration, 
mingled  with  a  feminine  awe  of  his  warlike  de- 
meanor;— of  his  yielding,  half  reluctant,  to  her 
tender  entreaties,  and  showing  her  the  wounds  he 
had  received  in  battle  ; — then  the  bitter  thoughts 


310  CONJUGAL    POETRY. 

of  his  danger  and  absence,  mingling  with,  and 
interrupting  these  delicious  recollections  of  happ> 
ness, — are  all  as  true  to  feeling  as  they  are  beautiful 
in  poetry. 

After  a  short  career  of  glory,  Pescara  was  at 
length  appointed  commander-in-chief  of  the  Im- 
perial armies,  and  gained  the  memorable  battle  of 
Pavia.  Feared  by  his  enemies,  and  adored  by  his 
soldiers,  his  power  was  at  this  time  so  great,  that 
many  attempts  were  made  to  shake  his  fidelity  to 
the  Emperor.  Even  the  kingdom  of  Naples  was 
offered  to  him  if  he  would  detach  himself  from  the 
party  of  Charles  the  Fifth.  Pescara  was  not 
without  ambition,  though  without  "the  ill  that 
should  attend  it"  He  wavered— he  consulted  his 
wife; — he  expressed  his  wish  to  place  her  on  a 
throne  she  was  so  fitted  to  adorn.  That  admirable 
and  high-minded  woman  wrote  to  confirm  him  in 
the  path  of  honor,  and  besought  him  not  to  sell  his 
faith  and  truth,  and  his  loyalty  to  the  cause  in 
which  he  had  embarked,  for  a  kingdom.  "For 
me,"  she  said,  "  believe  that  I  do  not  desire  to  be 
the  wife  of  a  King ;  I  am  more  proud  to  be  the 
wife  of  that  great  captain,  who  in  war  by  his  valor, 
and  in  peace  by  his  magnanimity,  has  vanquished 
the  greatest  monarchs."* 

On   receiving   this  letter,  Pescara  hastened  to 


*  "  Non  desidero  d'esser  moglie  d'un  re;  bensi  di  quel  gran 
eapitano,  il  quale  non  solamente  in  guerra  con  valor,  ma  ancora 
In  pace  con  la  magnanimiti  ha  saputo  vincere  i  re  pid  grande.' 
'Vita  di  Vittoria  Colonna,  da  Giambattista  Rota.) 


VITTORIA    COLONNA.  311 

shake  off  the  subtle  tempters  round  him ;  but  he 
had  previously  become  so  far  entangled,  that  he 
did  not  escape  without  some  impeachment  of  hia 
before  stainless  honor.  The  bitter  consciousness 
of  this,  and  the  effects  of  some  desperate  wounds 
he  had  received  at  the  battle  of  Pavia,  which 
broke  out  afresh,  put  a  period  to  his  life  at  Milan, 
in  his  thirty-fifth  year.* 

The  Marchesana  was  at  Naples  when  the  news 
of  his  danger  arrived.  She  immediately  set  out 
to  join  him ;  but  was  met  at  Viterbo  by  a  courier 
bearing  the  tidings  of  his  death.  On  hearing  this 
intelligence,  she  fainted  away ;  and  being  brought 
a  little  to  herself,  sank  into  a  stupor  of  grief,  which 
alarmed  her  attendants  for  her  reason  or  her  life. 
Seasonable  tears  at  length  came  to  her  relief;  but 
her  sorrow,  for  a  long,  long  time,  admitted  no  allevi- 
ation. She  retired,  after  her  first  overwhelming 
anguish  had  subsided,  to  her  favorite  residence  in 
the  isle  of  Ischia,  where  she  spent,  almost  uninter- 
ruptedly, the  first  seven  years  of  her  widowhood. 

Being  only  in  her  thirty-fifth  year,  in  the  prime 
of  her  life  and  beauty,  and  splendidly  dowered, 

(it  was  supposed  that  she  would  marry  again,  and 
many  of  the  Princes  of  Italy  sought  her  hand  ;  her 
brothers  urged  it;  but  she  replied  to  their  en- 
treaties and  remonstrances,  with  a  mixture  of 
dignity  and  tenderness,  that  "  Though  her  noble 
husband  might  be  by  others  reputed  dead,  he  still 

*  See  In  Robertson's  Charles  V.  an  account  of  th<»  generous 
jonduct  of  Pescara  to  the  Ohevalier  Bayard. 


812  CONJUGAL    POETRY 

lired  to  her,  and  to  her  heart."  *  And  in  one  of  her 
poems,  she  alludes  to  these  attempts  to  shake  her 
constancy.  "  I  will  preserve,"  she  says,  "  the  title 
of  a  faithful  wife  to  my  beloved, — a  title  dear  to 
me  beyond  every  other ;  and  on  this  island  rock,f 
once  so  dear  to  him,  will  I  wait  patiently,  till  time 
brings  the  end  of  all  my  griefs,  as  once  of  all  my 
joys? 

D'  arder  sempre  piangendo  non  mi  doglio! 
Forse  avrb  di  fedele  il  titol  vero, 
Caro  a  me  sopra  ogn'  altro  etorno  onore. 
Non  cambiero  la  fe, — ne  questo  scoglio 
Ch'  al  mio  sol  piacque,  ove  fin  ire  spero 
Come  le  dolci  gia,  quest'  amore  ore !  J 

This  Sonnet  was  written  in  the  seventh  year  of 
her  widowhood.  She  says  elsewhere,  that  her 
heart  having  once  been  so  nobly  bestowed,  disdains 
a  meaner  chain  ;  and  that  her  love  had  not  ceased 
with  the  death  of  its  object. — 

Di  cosi  nobil  fiamma  amore  mi  cinse, 
Ch'  essendo  spenta,  in  me  viva  1'  ardore. 

There  is  another,  addressed  to  the  poet,  Molza, 
in  which  she  alludes  to  the  fate  of  his  parents,  who, 
by  a  singular  providence,  both  expired  in  the 
same  day  and  hour ;  such  a  fate  appeared  to  he* 


*  Che  il  BUO  sole,  quantunque  dagli  altri  fosse  rlputato  morte, 
*ppresso  di  lei  sempre  re  vivea.    (Vita.) 
t  lechia.  t  Sonnet  74. 


VITTORIA    COLONNA.  313 

worthy  of  envy  ;  and  she  laments  very  tenderly 
that  Heaven  had  doomed  her  to  survive  him  with 
whom  her  heart  lay  buried.  There  are  others  ad- 
dressed to  Cardinal  Bembo,  in  which  she  thus  ex- 
cuses herself  for  making  Pescara  the  subject  of  her 
verse. 

Scrivo  sol  per  sfogar  1'  interna  doglia ; 
La  pura  fe,  1'  ardor,  1'  intensa  pena 
Mi  scusa  appo  ciascun;  che  '1  grave  pianto 
E  tal,  che  tempo,  ne  raggion  1'  affrena. 

There  is  also  a  Canzone  by  Vittoria,  full  of 
poetry  and  feeling,  in  which  she  alludes  to  the  loss 
of  that  beauty  which  once  she  was  proud  to  possess, 
because  it  was  dear  in  her  husband's  sight.  "  Look 
down  upon  me,"  she  exclaims,  "  from  thy  seat  of 
glory  !  look  down  upon  me  with  those  eyes  that  ever 
turned  with  tenderness  on  mine  !  Behold,  how  misery 
has  changed  me  ;  how  all  that  once  was  beauty  is 
fled ! — and  yet  I  am — I  am  the  same  ! " — (lo  son — 
io  son  ben  dessa  !) — But  no  translation — none  at 
least  that  I  could  execute — would  do  justice  to  the 
deep  pathos,  the  feminine  feeling,  and  the  eloquent 
simplicity  of  this  beautiful  and  celebrated  poein. 
The  reader  will  find  it  in  Mathias's  collection.* 

After  the  lapse  of  several  years,  her  mind,  ele- 
vated by  the  very  nature  of  her  grief,  took  a  strong 
devotional  turn ;  and  from  this  time,  we  find  her 
poetry  entirely  consecrated  to  sacred  subjects. 

*  Componimenti  Lirici,  vol.  i.  144. 


8U  CONJUGAL    POETRY. 

The  first  of  these  Rime  spirituals  is  exquiaitel? 
beautiful.  She  allows  that  the  anguish  she  had 
felt  on  the  death  of  her  noble  husband,  was  not 
alleviated;  but  rather  nourished  and  kept  alive  in 
all  its  first  poignancy,  by  .constantly  dwelling  on 
the  theme  of  his  virtues  and  her  own  regrets  ;  that 
the  thirst  of  fame,  and  the  possession  of  glory,  could 
not  cure  the  pining  sickness  of  her  heart ;  and  that 
she  now  turned  to  Heaven  as  a  last  and  best  re- 
source against  sorrow.* 

Poiche  '1  mio  casto  amor,  gran  tempo  tenne 
L'  alma  di  fama  accesa,  ed  ella  un  angue 
In  sen  nudrio,  per  cui  dolente  or  langue, — 
Volta  al  Signor,  onde  il  remedio  venne. 
*  *  *  * 

Chiamar  qui  non  convien  Parnasso  o  Delo; 
Ch'  ad  altra  acqua  s'  aspira,  ad  altro  monte 
Si  poggia,  u'  piede  uman  per  se  non  sale. 

Not  the  least  of  Vittoria's  titles  to  fame,  was  the 
intense  adoration  with  which  she  inspired  Michel 
Angelo.  Condivi  says  he  was  enamoured  of  her 
divine  talents.  "  In  particolare  egli  am6  grande- 

*  L'  honneur  d'avoir  dt6,  entre  toutes  les  poetes,  la  premier* 
a.  composer  un  recueil  de  poesies  sacrees,  appartient,  toute  en- 
tiere,  i  Vittoria  Colonna.  (See  Ginguen6.)  Her  masterpieces, 
In  this  style,  are  said  to  be  the  sonnet  on  the  death  of  oui 
Saviour, — 

"  Gli  Angeli  eletti  al  gran  bene  infinite    ' 
and  the  hymn 

"  Padre  Eterno  del  cielo  !  " 

which  is  sublime;   it  may  be  found  in   Mathias's  Collection, 
wol.  iii. 


VITTORIA    COLONNA.  315 

mente  la  Marchesana  di  Pescara,  del  cui  divino 
epirito  ara  inamorato ; "  and  lie  makes  use  of  a  strong 
expression  to  describe  the  admiration  arid  friend- 
ship she  felt  for  him  in  return.  She  was  fifteen 
years  younger  than  Michel  Angelo,  who  not  only 
employed  his  pencil  and  his  chisel  for  her  pleasure, 
or  at  her  suggestion,  but  has  left  among  his  poems 
several  which  are  addressed  to  her,  and  which 
breathe  that  deep  and  fervent,  yet  pure  and  rever- 
ential love  she  was  as  worthy  to  inspire  as  he  was 
to  feel. 

I  cannot  refuse  myself  the  pleasure  of  adding 
here  one  of  the  Sonnets,  addressed  by  Michel  An- 
gelo to  the  Marchesana  of  Pescara,  as  translated 
by  Wordsworth,  in  a  peal  of  grand  harmony, 
almost  as  literally  faithful  to  the  expression  as  to 
the  spirit  of  the  original. 

SONNET. 

Yes !  hope  may  with  my  strong  desire  keep  pace, 
And  I  be  undeluded,  unbetrayed; 
For  if  of  our  affections  none  find  grace 
In  sight  of  Heaven,  then,  wherefore  hath  God  made 
The  world  which  we  inhabit  ?    Better  plea 
Love  cannot  have,  than  that  in  loving  theo 
Glorv  to  that  eternal  peace  is  paid, 
Who  such  divinity  to  thee  imparts 
As  hallows  and  makes  pure  all  gentle  hearts. 
His  hope  is  treacherous  only  whose  Icve  dies 
With  beauty,  which  is  varying  every  hour:  • 
But,  in  chaste  hearts,  uninfluenced  by  the  power 
Of  outward  change,  there  blooms  a  deathless  flower, 
That  breathes  on  earth  the  air  of  Paradise. 


316  CONJUGAL    POETRY. 

He  stood  by  her  in  her  last  moments ;  and  wheu 
her  lofty  and  gentle  spirit  had  forsaken  its  fair 
tenement,  he  raised  her  hand  and  kissed  it  with  a 
sacred  respect.  He  afterwards  expressed  to  an  in- 
timate friend,  his  regret,  that  being  oppressed  by 
the  awful  feelings  of  that  moment,  he  had  not,  for 
the  first  and  last  time,  pressed  his  lips  to  hers. 

Vittoria  had  another  passionate  admirer  in 
Galeazzo  di  Tarsia,  Count  of  Belmonte  in  Cala- 
bria, and  an  excellent  poet  of  that  time.*  His 
attachment  was  a  poetical,  but  apparently  not  quite 
so  Platonic,  as  that  of  Michel  Angelo.  His  beauti- 
ful Canzone  beginning, 

A  quel  pietra  sommiglia 
La  mia  bella  Colonna, 

contains  lines  rather  more  impassioned  than  toe 
modest  and  grave  Vittoria  could  have  approved 
for  example — 

Con  lei  foss'  io  da  che  si  parte  il  sole, 

E  non  ci  vedesse  altri  che  le  stelle, 

— Solo  una  notte — e  mai  non  fosse  1'  Alba! 

Marini  and  Bernardo  Tasso  were  also  numbered 
nmong  her  poets  and  admirers. 

Vittoria  Colonna  died  at  Rome,  in  1547.  Sho 
was  suspected  of  favoring  in  secret  the  reformed 
doctrines;  but  I  do  not  know  on  what  authority 

*  Died  1535 


VITTORIA    COLONNA.  317 

Rost/oe  mentions  this.  Her  noble  birth,  her  ad- 
mirable beauty,  her  illustrious  marriage,  her  splen- 
did genius^  (which  made  her  the  worship  of  genius 
— and  the  theme  of  poets,)  have  rendered  her  one 
of  the  most  remarkable  of  women  ;  as  her  sorrows, 
her  conjugal  virtues,  her  innocence  of  heart,  and 
elegance  of  mind,  have  rendered  her  one  of  the 
most  interesting. 

"  Where  could  she  fix  on  mortal  ground 
Those  tender  thoughts  and  high? 

Now  peace  the  woman's  heart  hath  found, 
And  joy  the  poet's  eye!  " 

Antiquity  may  boast  its  heroines ;  but  it  required 
virtues  of  a  higher  order  to  be  a  Vittoria  Colonna, 
or  a  Lady  Russell,  than  to  be  a  Portia  or  an  Arria. 
How  much  more  graceful,  and  even  more  sublime, 
is  the  moral  strength,  the  silent  enduring  heroism 
of  the  Christian,  than  the  stern,  impatient  defiance 
of  destiny,  which  showed  so  imposing  in  the 
heathen  !  How  much  more  difficult  is  it  sometimes 
to  live  than  to  die ! 

Piii  val  d'  ogni  vittoria  un  bel  soffirire. 

Or  as  Campbell  has  expressed  nearly  the  same 
pentiment, 

To  bear,  is  to  conquer  our  fate  1 


S18  CONJUGAL   POETRY. 

CHAPTER  XXV. 

CONJUGAL  POETRY,  CONTINUED. 

VERONICA   QAMBARA. 

VITTORIA  COLONNA,  and  her  famed  friend  and 
contemporary,  Veronica,  Countess  of  Correggio,  are 
inseparable  names  in  the  history  of  Italian  litera- 
ture, as  living  at  the  same  time,  and  equally  orna- 
ments of  their  sex.  They  resembled  each  other  in 
poetical  talent,  in  their  domestic  sorrows  and  con- 
jugal virtues  :  in  every  other  respect  the  contrast 
is  striking.  Vittoria,  with  all  her  genius,  seems  to 
have  been  as  lovely,  gentle,  and  feminine  a  creature 
as  ever  wore  the  form  of  woman. 

No  lily — no — nor  fragrant  hyacinth, 

Had  half  such  softness,  sweetness,  blessedness. 

Veronica,  on  the  contrary,  was  one, 

to  whose  masculine  spirit 

To  touch  the  stars  had  seemed  an  easy  flight. 

She  added  to  her  talents  and  virtues,  strong  pas- 
sions,— and  happily  also  sufficient  energy  of  mind 
to  govern  and  direct  them.  She  had  not  Vittoria'a 
personal  charms :  it  is  said,  that  if  her  face  had 
equalled  her  form,  she  would  have  been  one  of  the 


VERONICA   GAMBARA.  819 

most  beautiful  women  of  her  time  ;  but  her  features 
were  irregular,  and  her  grand  commanding  figure, 
which  in  her  youth  was  admired  for  its  perfect 
proportions,  grew  large  and  heavy  as  she  advanced 
in  life.  She  retained,  however,  to  the  last,  the 
animation  of  her  countenance,  the  dignity  of  her 
fleportment,  and  powers  of  conversation  so  fasci- 
nating, that  none  ever  approached  her  without 
admiration,  or  quitted  her  society  without  regret. 

Her  verses  have  not  the  polished  harmony  and 
the  graceful  suavity  of  Vittoria's ;  but  more  vigor 
of  expression,  and  more  vivacity  of  coloring. 
Their  defects  were  equally  opposed  :  the  simplicity 
of  Veronica  sometimes  borders  upon  harshness 
and  carelessness  ;  the  uniform  sweetness  of  Vittoria 
is  sometimes  too  elaborate  and  artificial. 

Veronica  Gambara  was  born  in  1485.  Her 
fortunate  parents,  as  her  biographer  expresses  it,* 
were  Count  Gian  Francisco  Gambara,  and  Alda 
Pia.  In  her  twenty-fifth  year,  when  already  dis- 
tinguished as  a  poetess,  and  a  woman  of  great  and 
various  learning,  she  married  Ghiberto,  Count  of 
Correggio,  to  whom  she  appears  to  have  been 
attached  with  all  the  enthusiasm  of  her  character, 
and  by  whom  she  was  tenderly  loved  in  return. 
After  the  birth  of  her  second  son,  she  was  seized 
with  a  dangerous  disorder,  of  what  nature  we  are 
not  told.  The  physicians  informed  her  husband 
that  they  did  not  despair  of  her  recovery,  but  that 
the  remedies  they  should  be  forced  to  employ 

*  Zamboni. 


320  CONJUGAL   POETRY. 

would  probably  preclude  all  hope  of  her  becoming 
again  a  mother.  The  Count,  who  had  always 
wished  for  a  numerous  offspring,  ordered  them  to 
employ  these  remedies  instantly,  and  save  her  to 
him  at  every  other  risk.  She  recovered  ;  but  the 
effects  upon  her  constitution  were  such  as  had  been 
predicted. 

Like  Vittoria  Colonna,  she  made  the  personal 
qualities  and  renown  of  her  husband  the  principal 
subjects  of  her  verse.  She  dwells  particularly  on 
his  fine  dark  eyes,  expressing  very  gracefully  the 
various  feelings  they  excited  in  her  heart,  whether 
clouded  with  thought,  or  serene  with  happiness,  01 
sparkling  with  affection.*  She  devotes  six  Sonnets 
and  a  Madrigal  to  this  subject ;  and  if  we  may 
believe  his  poetical  and  admiring  wife,  these  "  occhi 
stellante  "  could  combine  more  variety  of  expression 
in  a  single  glance  than  ever  did  eyes  before  or 

since. 

Lieti,  mesti,  superbi,  umili,  altieri, 

Vi  mostrate  in  un  punto;  onde  di  speme 

E  di  timor  m'  empiete. — 

There  is  a  great  power  and  pathos  in  one  of  her 
poems,  written  on  his  absence. 

0  Stella!  0  Fato!  del  mio  mal  si  avaro! 
Ch'  1  mio  ben  m'  allontani,  anzi  m'  involi — 
Fia  mai  quel  di  ch'  io  lo  riveggia  o  mora?  f 


*"Molto  vagamente  spiegando  i  varj  e  different! 
»ndavano  cagionando  nel  di  lei  core,  a  misura  che  essi  eran  tor 
bidi,  o  lieti,  o  sereni."— See  her  Life  by  Zamboni. 

t  Sonnet  16. 


VERONICA    GAMBARA.  321 

Veronica  lost  her  husband,  after  nine  years  of 
the  happiest  union.*  He  gave  her  an  incontro- 
vertible proof  of  his  attachment  and  boundless 
confidence,  by  leaving  her  his  sole  executrix,  with 
the  government  of  Correggio,  and  the  guardianship 
of  his  children  during  their  minority.  Her  grief 
on  this  occasion  threw  her  into  a  dangerous  and 
protracted  fever,  which  during  the  rest  of  her  life 
attacked  her  periodically.  She  says  in  one  of  her 
poems,  that  nothing  but  the  fear  of  not  meeting 
her  beloved  husband  in  Paradise  prevented  her 
from  dying  with  him.  She  not  only  vowed  herself 
to  a  perpetual  widowhood,  but  to  a  perpetual 
mourning ;  and  the  extreme  vivacity  of  her  imagi- 
nation was  displayed  in  the  strange  trappings  of 
woe  with  which  she  was  henceforth  surrounded. 
She  lived  in  apartments  hung  and  furnished  with 
black,  and  from  which  every  object  of  luxury  was 
banished  ;  her  liveries,  her  coach,  her  horses,  were 
of  the  same  funereal  hue.  There  is  extant  a  curi- 
ous letter  addressed  by  her  to  Ludovico  Rossi,  in 
which  she  entreats  her  dear  Messer  Ludovico,  by 
all  their  mutual  friendship,  to  procure,  at  any  price, 
a  certain  black  horse,  to  complete  her  set  of  car- 
riage horses — "  piu  che  notte  oscuri,  conformi,  pro- 
prio  a  miei  travagli."  Over  the  door  of  her 
sleeping-room  she  inscribed  the  distich  which 
Virgil  has  put  into  the  mouth  of  Dido. 

Ille  meos,  pi-imus  qui  me  sibi  junxit,  amores, 
Abstulit:  ille  habeatsecum  servetqiie  sepulchre! 

*  Ghiberto  da  Correggio  died  1518. 
21 


822  CONJUGAL   POETKY. 

He  who  once  had  my  vows,  shall  ever  have, 
Beloved  on  earth  and  worshipped  in  the  grave ! 

But,  unlike  Dido,  she  did  not  "  profess  tiK- 
much."  She  kept  her  word.  Neither  did  she 
neglect  her  duties ;  but  more  fortunate  in  one 
respect  than  her  fair  and  elegant  friend  the  Mar- 
chesana,  she  had  two  sons,  to  whose  education 
she  paid  the  utmost  attention,  while  she  adminis- 
tered the  government  of  Correggio  with  equal 
firmness  and  gentleness.  Her  husband  had  left  a 
daughter,*  whom  she  educated  and  married  with  a 
noble  dower.  Her  eldest  son,  Hypolito,  became  a 
celebrated  military  commander  ;  her  youngest  and 
favorite  son,  Girolamo,  was  created  a  cardinal. 
Wherever  Veronica  loved,  it  seems  to  have  been 
with  the  same  passionate  abandon  which  distin- 
guished her  character  in  every  thing.  Writing  to 
a  friend  to  recommend  her  son  to  his  kind  offices, 
she  assures  him  that  he  (her  son)  is  not  only  a 
part  of  herself—  but  rather  herself.  u  Remember," 
she  says,  "  Ch'  egli  e  la  Veronica  medesima," — a 
strong  and  tender  expression. 

We  find  her  in  correspondence  with  all  the  most 
illustrious  characters,  political  and  literary,  of  that 
time ;  and  chiefly  with  Ariosto,  Bembo,  Molza, 
Sanazzaro,  and  Vittoria  Colonna.  Ariosto  has 
paid  her  an  elegant  compliment  in  the.  last  canto  of 
the  Orlando  Furioso.  She  is  one  among  the  com- 
pany of  beautiful  and  accomplished  women  and 
noble  knights,  who  hail  the  poet  at  the  conclusion 

-H  Constance,  by  his  first  wife,  Violarite  di  Mirandola. 
\ 


VERONICA   GAMBARA.  323 

of  his  work,  as  a  long-travelled  mariner  is  wel- 
comed to  the  shore : 

Veronica  da  Gambara  e  con  loro 

Si  grata  a  Febo,  e  al  santo  aonio  coro. 

This  was  distinction  enough  to  immortalize  her, 
if  she  had  not  already  immortalized  herself. 

Veronica  was  not  a  prolific  poetess  ;  but  the  few 
Sonnets  she  has  left,  have  a  vigor,  a  truth  and  sim- 
plicity, not  often  met  with  among  the  rimatori  of 
that  rhyming  age.  She  has  written  fewer  good 
poems  than  Vittoria  Colonna,  but  among  them, 
two  which  are  reckoned  superior  to  Vittoria's  best, 
— one  addressed  to  the  rival  monarchs,  Charles 
the  Fifth  and  Francis  the  First  exhortin^  them  to 

t? 

give  peace  to  Italy,  and  unite  their  forces  to  pro- 
tect civilized  Europe  from  the  incursions  of  the 
infidels  ;  the  other,  which  is  exquisitely  tender  and 
picturesque,  was  composed  on  revisiting  her  native 
place,  Brescia,  after  the  death  of  her  husband. 

Poi  che  per  mia  ventura  a  veder  torno,  &c. 

It  may  be  found  in  the  collection  of  Mathias. 

Veronica  da  Gambara  died  in  1550,  and  was 
buried  by  her  husband. 

It  should  seem  that  poetical  talents  and  conjugal 
truth  and  tenderness  were  inherent  in  the  family 
of  Veronica.  Her  niece,  Camilla  Valentini,  th(» 
authoress  of  some  very  sweet  poems,  which  are  to 
be  found  in  various  Scelte,  married  the  Count  del 
Verme,  who  died  after  a  union  of  several  year* 


324  CONJUGAL   POETRY. 

She  had  flung  herself,  in  a  transport  of  grief,  ou 
the  bod}'  of  her  husband ;  and  when  her  attendants 
attempted  to  remove  her,  they  found  her — dead  J 
Even  in  that  moment  of  anguish  her  heart  had 
broken. 

0  judge  her  gently,  who  so  deeply  loved ! 
Her,  who  in  reason's  spite,  without  a  crime, 
Was  in  a  trance  of  passion  thus  removed ! 
***** 

I  have  been  detained  too  long  in  "  the  sweet 
South ; "  yet,  before  we  quit  it  for  the  present,  I 
must  allude  to  one  or  two  names  which  cannot  be 
entirely  passed  over,  as  belonging  to  the  period  of 
which  we  have  been  speaking — the  golden  age  of 
Italy  and  of  literature. 

Bernardino  Rota,  who  died  in  1575,  a  poet  of 
considerable  power  and  pathos,  has  left  a  volume 
of  poems,  "  In  vita  e  in  morte  di  Porzia  Capece  ;  " 
she  was  a  beautiful  woman  of  Naples,  whom  ho 
loved  and  afterwards  married,  and  who  was 
snatched  from  him  in  the  pride  of  her  youth  and 
beauty.  Among  his  Sonnets,  I  find  one  peculiarly 
striking,  though  far  from  being  the  best.  The 
picture  it  presents,  with  all  its  affecting  accompani- 
ments, and  the  feelings  commemorated,  are  obvi- 
ously taken  from  nature  and  reality.  The  poet — 
the  husband — approaches  to  contemplate  the  rife- 
less  form  of  his  Portia,  and  weeping,  he  draws 
from  her  pale  cold  hand  the  nuptial  ring,  which  he 
had  himself  placed  on  her  finger  with  all  the  fond 
anticipations  of  love  and  hope — the  pledge  of  a 


PORTIA    ROTA.  3'J6 

union  which  death  alone  could  dissolve :  and  nowt 
with  a  breaking  heart,  he  transfers  it  to  his  own. 
Such  is  the  subject  of  this  striking  poem,  which, 
with  some  few  faults  against  taste,  is  still  singularly 
picturesque  and  eloquent,  particularly  the  'ast  «x 
lines. — 


Questa  scolpita  in  oro,  arnica  fede, 
Che  santo  amor  nel  tuo  bel  dito  pose, 
0  priraa  a  me  delle  terrene  cose ! 
Donna !  caro  mio  pregio, — alta  merced — 

Ben  fu  da  te  serbata;  e  ben  si  vede 
Che  al  cummun'  voler'  sempre  rispose, 
Del  dl  ch'  il  ciel  nel  mio  pensier'  t'  ascose, 
E  quanto  puote  dar,  tutto  mi  diede ! 

Ecco  ch'  io  la  t'  invola — ecco  ne  spoglio 
II  freddo  avorio  che  1'  ornava  ;  e  vesto 
La  mia,  piu  assai  che  la  tua,  mano  esangue. 

Dolce  mio  furto !  finche  vivo  io  voglio 
Che  tu  stia  meco — ne  le  sia  molesto 
Ch'  or  di  pianto  ti  bagni, — e  poi  di  sangue ! 

LITERAL    TRANSLATION. 

"This  circlet  of  sculptured  gold — this  pledge  which 
sacred  affection  placed  on  that  fair  %hand — 0  Lady! 
dearest  to  me  of  all  earthly  things, — my  sweet  possession 
and  my  lovely  prize, — well  and  faithfully  didst  thou  pre- 
serve it !  the  bond  of  a  mutual  love  and  mutual  faith, 
even  from  that  hour  when  Heaven  bestowed  on  me  all  it 
could  bestow  of  bliss.  Now  then — 0  now  do  I  take  it 
from  thee !  and  thus  do  I  withdraw  it  from  the  cold  ivory 
of  that  hand  which  so  adorned  and  honored  it.  I  place 
*t  on  mine  own,  now  chill,  and  damp,  anc*  Bale  as  thine. 


326  CONJUGAL   POETRY. 

0  beloved  theft ! — While  I  live  thou  shalt  never  part  from 
me.  Ah!  be  not  offended  if  thus  I  stain  thee  with  these 
./ears, — and  soon  perhaps  with  life-drops  from  my  heart." 

***** 

Castiglione,  besides  being  celebrated  as  the  finest 
gentleman  of  his  day,  and  the  author  of  that  code 
of  all  noble  and  knightly  accomplishments,  of  per- 
fect courtesy  and  gentle  bearing — "  II  Cortigiano,-" 
must  have  a  place  among  our  conjugal  poets.  He 
had  married  in  1516,  Hypolita  di  Torrello,  whose 
accomplishments,  beauty,  and  illustrious  birth,  ren- 
dered her  worthy  of  him.  It  appears,  however, 
that  her  family,  who  were  of  Mantua,  could  not 
bear  to  part  with  her,*  and  that  after  her  marriage, 
she  remained  in  that  city,  while  Castiglione  was 
ambassador  at  Rome.  This  separation  gave  rise 
to  a  very  impassioned  correspondence ;  and  the 
tender  regrets  and  remonstrances  scattered  through 
her  letters,  he  transposed  into  a  very  beautiful 
poem,  in  the  form  of  an  epistle  from  his  wife.  It 
may  be  found  in  the  appendix  to  Roscoe's  Leo  X. 
(No.  196.)  Hypolita  died  in  giving  birth  to  a 
daughter,  after  a  union  of  little  more  than  thr^e 
years,  and  left  Castiglione  for  some  time  inconsola- 
ble. We  are  particularly  told  of  the  sympathy  of 
the  Pope  and  the  Cardinals,  on  this  occasion,  and 
that  Leo  condoled  with  him  in  a  manner  equally 
unusual  and  substantial,  by  bestowing  on  him  im- 
mediately a  pension  of  two  hundred  gold  crowr.s. 

*  Serassi.— Vita  di  Baldassare  Castigliona. 


OR.   DONNE   AND    HIS    WIFK.  32? 

CHAPTER  XXVI. 

CONJUGAL   POETRY,    CONTINUED. 

STORY  OP    DR.    DONNE    AND    HIS    WIFE. 

Mr  next  instance  of  conjugal  poetry  is  taken 
from  the  literary  history  of  our  own  country,  and 
founded  on  as  true  and  touching  a  piece  of  romance 
as  ever  was  taken  from  the  page  of  real  life. 

Dr.  Donne,  once  so  celebrated  as  a  writer,  now 
so  neglected,  is  more  interesting  for  his  matrimonial 
history,  and  for  one  little  poem  addressed  to  his 
wife,  than  for  all  his  learned,  metaphysical,  and 
theological  productions.  As  a  poet,  it  is  probable 
that  even  readers  of  poetry  know  little  of  him,  ex- 
cept from  the  lines  at  the  bottom  of  the  pages  in 
Pope's  version,  or  rather  translation,  of  his  Satires, 
the  very  recollection  of  which  is  enough  to  "  set 
one's  ears  on  edge,"  and  verify  Coleridge's  witty 
and  imitative  couplet, — 

Donne — whose  muse  on  dromedary  trots, — 
Twists  iron  pokers  into  true  love  knots. 

It  is  this  inconceivable  harshness  of  versification, 
which  has  caused  Donne  to  be  so  little  read,  except 
by  those  who  make  our  old  poetry  their  study.  One 
of  these  critics  has  truly  observed,  that  "  there  is 
scarce  a  writer  in  our  language  who  has  so  thor- 


328  CONJUGAL   POETRY. 

oughly  mixed  up  the  good  and  the  bad  together. 
What  is  good,  is  the  result  of  truth,  of  passion,  of 
a  strong  mind,  and  a  brilliant  wit ;  what  is  bad,  is 
the  effect  of  a  most  perverse  taste,  and  total  want 
of  harmony.  No  sooner  has  he  kindled  the  fancy 
with  a  splendid  thought,  than  it  is  as  instantly 
quenched  in  a  cloud  of  cold  and  obscure  conceits, 
no  sooner  has  he  touched  the  heart  with  a  feeling 
or  sentiment,  true  to  nature  and  powerfully  ex- 
pressed, than  we  are  chilled  or  disgusted  by  ped- 
antry or  coarseness. 

The  events  of  Donne's  various  life,  and  the  ro- 
mantic love  he  inspired  and  felt,  make  us  recur  to 
his  works,  with  an  interest  and  a  curiosity,  which, 
while  they  give  a  value  to  every  beauty  we  can 
discover,  render  his  faults  more  glaring — more  pro 
voicing — more  intolerable. 

In  his  youth  he  lavished  a  considerable  fortune 
in  dissipation,  in  travelling,  and,  it  may  be  added, 
in  the  acquisition  of  great  and  various  learning. 
He  then  entered  the  service  of  Lord  Chancellor 
Ellesmere,  as  secretary.  Under  the  same  roof 
resided  Lady  Ellesmere's  niece,  Anne  Moore,  a 
lovely  and  amiable  woman.  She  was  about  nine- 
teen, and  Donne  was  about  thirty,  handsome,  lively, 
and  polished  by  travel  and  study.  They  met  con- 
stantly, and  the  result  was  a  mutual  attachment  of 
the  most  ardent  and  romantic  character.  As  they 
were  continually  together,  and  always  in  the  pres- 
ence of  watchful  relations,  ("  ambushed  around  with 
household  spies,"  as  he  expresses  it,)  it  could  not  long 


DR.    »>ONNE    AND    HIS    WIFE.  329 

be  concealed.  "  The  friends  of  both  parties,"  says 
Walton,  "  used  much  diligence  and  many  arguments 
to  kill  or  cool  their  affections  for  each  other,  but  in 
vain ; "  and  the  lady's  father,  Sir  George  Moore, 
"  knowing  prevention  to  be  the  best  part  of  wis- 
dom," came  up  to  town  in  all  haste,  and  carried  off 
his  daughter  into  the  country.  But  his  preventive 
wisdom  came  too  late  ;  the  lovers  had  been  secretly 
married  three  weeks  before. 

This  precipitate  step  was  perhaps  excusable, 
from  the  known  violence  and  sternness  of  Sir 
George's  character.  His  daughter  was  well  aware 
that  his  consent  would  never  be  voluntary;  she 
preferred  marrying  without  it,  to  marrying  against 
it ;  and  trusted  to  obtain  his  forgiveness  when  there 
was  no  remedy  ; — a  common  mode  of  reasoning,  1 
believe,  in  such  cases.  Never  perhaps  was  a  youth- 
ful error  of  this  description  more  bitterly  punished 
— more  deeply  expiated — and  so  little  repented  of ! 

The  earl  of  Northumberland  undertook  to  break 
the  matter  to  Sir  George,  to  reason  with  him  on  the 
subject ;  and  to  represent  the  excellent  qualities 
of  his  son-in-law,  and  the  duty  of  forgiveness,  as  a 
wise  man,  a  father,  and  Christian.  His  intention 
was  benevolent,  and  we  have  reason  to  regret  that 
his  speech  or  letter  has  not  been  preserved;  for 
(such  is  human  inconsistency  !)  this  very  Earl  of 
Northumberland  never  could  forgive  his  own  daugh- 
ter a  similar  disobedience,*  but  followed  it  with 

*  Lady  Lucy  Percy,  afterwards  the  famous  Countess  nj  Carlisle* 
«uen  ioneJ  in  page  285. 


330  CONJUGAL    POETRY. 

his  curse,  which  he  was  with  difficulty  prevailed 
on  to  retract.  His  mediation  failed  :  Sir  George, 
on  learning  that  his  precautions  came  too  late,  burst 
into  a  transport  of  rage,  the  effect  of  which  re- 
sembled insanity.  He  had  sufficient  interest  in  the 
arbitrary  court  of  James,  to  procure  the  imprison- 
ment of  Donne  and  the  witnesses  of  his  daughter's 
marriage  ;  and  he  insisted  that  his  brother-in-law 
should  dismiss  the  young  man  from  his  office, — his 
only  support.  Lord  Ellesmere  yielded  with  extreme 
reluctance,  saying,  "  he  parted  with  such  a  friend 
and  such  a  secretary,  as  were  a  fitter  servant  for  a 
King."  Donne,  in  sending  this  news  to  his  wife, 
signs  his  name  with  the  quaint  oddity,  which  was 
so  characteristic  of  his  mind, — John  Donne,  Anne 
Donne, — undone :  and  undone  they  truly  were.  As 
soon  as  he  was  released  he  claimed  his  wife ;  but  it 
was  many  months  before  they  were  allowed  to  meet. 

Have  we  for  this  kept  guard,  like  spy  o'er  spy? 

Had  correspondence  whilst  the  foe  stood  by  ? 

Stolen  (more  to  sweeten  them)  our  many  blisses 

Of  meetings,  conference,  embracements,  kisses  ? 

Shadow'd  with  negligence  our  best  respects? 

Varied  our  language  through  all  dialects 

Of  becks,  winks,  looks;  and  often  under  boards, 

Spoke  dialogues,  with  our  feet  far  from  our  words? 

And  after  all  this  passed  purgatory, 

Must  sad  divorce. make  us  the  vulgar  story?  * 

At  length  this  unkind  father  in  some  degree  re* 
tented ;  he  suffered  his  daughter  and  her  husband 

*  Donne's  Poems. 


DR.    DONNE    AND    HIS    WIFE.  &3l 

to  live  together,  but  he  refused  to  contribute  to 
their  support ;  and  they  were  reduced  to  the 
greatest  distress.  Donne  had  nothing.  "  His  wife 
had  been  curiously  and  plentifully  educated  ;  both 
their  natures  generous,  accustomed  to  confer,  not  to 
receive  courtesies  ;  "  and  when  he  looked  on  her 
who  was  to  be  the  partner  of  his  lot,  he  was  filled 
with  such  sadness  and  apprehension  as  he  could 
never  have  felt  for  himself  alone.* 

In  this  situation  they  were  invited  into  the  house 
of  a  generous  kinsman,  (Sir  Francis  Woolley,)  who 
maintained  them  and  their  increasing  family  for 
several  years,  "  to  their  mutual  content  "  and  un- 
diminished  friendship.f  Volumes  could  not  say  more 
in  praise  of  both  than  this  singular  connection  : — 
to  bestow  favors,  so  long  continued  and  of  such 
magnitude,  with  a  grace  which  made  them  sit  lightly 
on  those  who  received  them,  and  to  preserve,  under 
the  weight  of  such  obligation,  dignity,  indepen- 
dence, and  happiness,  bespeaks  uncommon  great- 
ness of  spirit  and  goodness  of  heart  and  temper  on 
ill  sides. 

This  close  and  domestic  intimacy  was  dissolved 
wily  by  the  death  of  Sir  Francis,  who  had  previ- 
ously procured  a  kind  of  reconcilement  with  the 
father  of  Mrs.  Donne,  and  an  allowance  of  about 
eighty  pounds  a  year.  They  fell  again  into  debt, 
and  into  misery ;  and  "  doubtless,"  says  old  Walton, 
with  a  quaint,  yet  eloquent  simplicity,  "  their  aaaiv 

*  Walton's  Lives. 

t  Walton's  Life  of  Donne. — Chalmers's  Biography. 


832  CONJUGAL   POETRY. 

riage  had  been  attended  with  a  heavy  repentance, 
if  God  had  not  blessed  them  with  so  mutual  and 
cordial  affections,  as,  in  the  midst  of  their  suffer- 
ings, made  their  bread  of  sorrow  taste  more  pleas- 
antly than  the  banquets  of  dull  and  low-spirited* 
people."  We  find  in  some  of  Donne's  letters, 
the  most  heart-rending  pictures  of  family  distress, 
mingled  with  the  tenderest  touches  of  devoted  af- 
fection fo\  his  amiable  wife.  "  I  write,"  he  says, 
"  from  the  fireside  in  my  parlor,  and  in  the  noise 
of  three  gamesome  children,  and  by  the  side  of  her, 
whom,  because  I  have  transplanted  into  a  wretched 
fortune,  I  must  labor  to  disguise  that  from  her  by 
all  such  honest  devices,  as  giving  her  my  company 
and  discourse,"  &c.  &c. 

And  in  another  letter  he  describes  himself,  with 
all  his  family  sick,  his  wife  stupefied  by  her  own 
and  her  children's  sufferings,  without  money  to 
purchase  medicine, — "  and  if  God  should  ease  us 
with  burials,  I  know  not  how  to  perform  even  that ; 
but  I  flatter  myself  that  I  am  dying  too,  for  I  can- 
not waste  faster  than  by  such  griefs. — From  my 
hospital.  JOHN  DONNE." 

This  is  the  language  of  despair ;  but  love  was 
stronger  than  despair,  and  supported  this  affection- 
ate couple  through  all  their  trials.  Add  to  mutual 
love  the  spirit  of  high  honor  and  conscious  desert; 
for  in  the  midst  of  this  sad,  and  almost  sordid  misery 
and  penury,  Donne,  whose  talents  his  con  tempera 

*  i.  e.  low-minded. 


DR.  DONNE   AND   HIS   WIFE.  338 

ries  acknowledged  with  admiration,  lefused  to  take 
orders  and  accept  a  benefice,  from  a  scruple  of  con- 
science, on  account  of  the  irregular  life  he  had  led 
in  his  youthful  years. 

But  in  their  extremity.  Providence  raised  them 
up  another  munificent  friend.  Sir  Robert  Drury 
received  the  whole  family  into  his  house,  treated 
Donne  with  the  most  cordial  respect  and  affection, 
and  some  time  afterwards  invited  him  to  accom- 
pany him  abroad. 

Donne  had  been  married  to  his  wife  seven  years, 
during  which  they  had  suffered  every  variety  of 
wretchedness,  except  the  greatest  of  all, — that  of 
being  separated.  The  idea  of  this  first  parting  was 
beyond  her  fortitude ;  she  said,  her  "  divining  soul 
boded  her  some  ill  in  his  absence,"  and  with  tears 
she  entreated  him  not  to  leave  her.  Her  affection- 
ate husband  yielded ;  but  Sir  Robert  Drury  was 
urgent  and  would  not  be  refused.  Donne  repre- 
sented to  his  wife  all  that  honor  and  gratitude  re- 
quired of  him ;  and  she,  too  really  tender,  and  too 
devoted  to  be  selfish  and  unreasonable,  yielded 
with  "  an  unwilling  willingness';"  yet,  womanlike, 
she  thought  she  could  not  bear  a  pain  she  had 
never  tried,  and  was  seized  with  the  romantic  idea 
of  following  him  in  the  disguise  of  a  page.*  Jn  a 
delicate  and  amiable  woman,  and  a  mother,  it  could 
have  been  but  a  momentary  thought,  suggested  in 
the  frenzy  of  anguish.  It  inspired,  however,  the 

*  Chalmers's  Biography. 


834  CONJUGAL   POETRY. 

Allowing  beautiful  dissuasion,  which  her  husband 
addressed  to  her. 

By  our  first  strange  and  fatal  interview; 
By  all  desires  which  thereof  did  ensue; 
By  our  long-striving  hopes ;  by  that  remorse 
Which  ray  words'  masculine  persuasive  force 
Begot  in  thee,  and  by  the  memory 
.    Of  hurts  which  spies  and  rivals  threaten'd  me, — 
I  calmly  beg :  but  by  thy  father's  wrath, 
By  all  pains  which  want  and  divorcement  hatht 
I  conjure  thee; — and  all  the  oaths  which  I 
And  thou  have  sworn  to  seal  joint  constancy, 
1  here  unswear,  and  overswear  them  thus : 
Thou  shalt  not  love  by  means  so  dangerous. 
Temper,  0  fair  Love!  Love's  impetuous  rage; 
Be  my  true  mistress,  not  my  feigned  page. 
I'll  go,  and  by  thy  kind  leave,  leave  behind 
Thee,  only  worthy  to  nurse  in  my  mind 
Thirst  to  come  back.     0 !  if  thou  die  before, 
My  soul  from  other  lands  to  thee  shall  soar: 
Thy  (else  almighty)  beauty  cannot  move 
Rage  from  the  seas,  not  thy  love  teach  them  love, 
Nor  tame  wild  Boreas'  harshness:  thou  hast  read 
How  roughly  he  in  pieces  shivered 
Fair  Orithea,  whom  he  swore  he  loved. 
Fall  ill  or  good,  'tis  madness  to  have  proved 
Dangers  unurg'd:  feed  on  this  flattery, 
That  absent  lovers  one  in  th'  other  be. 
Dissemble  nothing, — not  a  boy, — nor  change 
Thy  body's  habit  nor  mind :  be  not  strange 
To  thyself  only :  all  will  spy  in  thy  face 
A  blushing,  womanly,  discovering  grace. 
When  I  am  gone  dream  me  some  happiness, 
Nor  let  thy  looks  our  long-hid  love  confess: 
Nor  praise  nor  dispraise  me;  nor  bless  nor  cane 


DR.  DONNE    AND    HIS    WIFE.  335 

Openly  lovo's  force;  nor  in  bed  fright  thy  nurse 
With  midnight  startings,  crying  out,  Oh!  ob ! 
Nurse,  oh !  my  love  is  slain !  I  saw  him  go 
O'er  the  white  Alps  alone;  I  saw  him,  I, 
Assailed,  ta'en,  fight,  stabb'd,  bleed,  fall,  and  die ! 
Augur  me  better  chance,  except  dread  Jove 
Think  it  enough  for  me  to  have  had  thy  love. 

I  would  not  have  the  heart  of  one  who  could 
read  these  lines,  and  think  only  of  their  rugged 
style,  and  faults  of  taste  and  expression.  The  su- 
perior power  of  truth  and  sentiment  have  immor- 
talized this  little  poem,  and  the  occasion  which 
gave  it  birth.  The  wife  and  husband  parted,  and 
he  left  with  her  another  little  poem,  which  he  calls 
a  "  Valediction,  forbidding  to  mourn." 

When  Donne  was  at  Paris,  and  still  suffering  un- 
der the  grief  of  this  separation,  he  saw,  or  fancied 
he  saw,  the  apparition  of  his  wife  pass  through  the 
room  in  which  he  sat,  her  hair  dishevelled  and 
hanging  down  upon  her  shoulders,  her  face  pale  and 
mournful,  and  carrying  in  her  arms  a  dead  infant. 
Sir  Robert  Drury  found  him  a  few  minutes  after- 
wards in  such  a  state  of  horror,  and  his  mind  so 
impressed  with  the  reality  of  this  vision,  that  an 
express  was  immediately  sent  off  to  England,  to 
inquire  after  the  health  of  Mrs.  Donne.  She  had 
been  seized,  after  the  departure  of  her  husband, 
with  a  premature  confinement;  had  been  at  the 
point  of  death ;  but  was  then  out  of  danger,  and 
recovering. 

This  incident  has  been  related  by  all  Donne's 


336  CONJUGAL    POETRY. 

biographers,  by  some  with  infinite  solemnity,  by 
others  with  sneering  incredulity.  I  can  speak  from 
experience,  of  the  power  of  the  imagination  to  im- 
press us  with  a  palpable  sense  of  what  is  not,  and 
cannot  be  ;  and  it  seems  to  me  that,  in  a  man  of 
Donne's  ardent,  melancholy  temperament,  brood- 
ing day  and  night  on  the  one  sad  idea,  a  high  state 
»f  nervous  excitement  is  sufficient  to  account  for 
this  impression,  without  having  recourse  to  super- 
natural agency,  or  absolute  disbelief. 

Donne,  after  several  years  of  study,  was  pre- 
vailed on  to  enter  holy  orders ;  and  about  four 
years  afterwards,  his  amiable  wife  died  in  hei 
twelfth  confinement.*  His  grief  was  so  overwhelm- 
ing, that  his  old  friend  Walton  thinks  it  necessary 
thus  to  apologize  for  him  :  "  Nor  is  it  hard  to  think 
(being  that  passions  may  be  both  changed  and 
heightened  by  accidents,)  but  that  the  abundant 
affection  which  was  once  betwixt  him  and  her,  who 
had  so  long  been  the  delight  of  his  eyes  and  the 
companion  of  his  youth  ;  her,  with  whom  he  had 
divided  so  many  pleasant  sorrows  and  contented 
fears,  as  common  people  are  not  capable  of,  should 
be  changed  into  a  commensurable  grief."'  He  roused 
himself  at  length  to  his  duties  ;  and  preaching  his 
first  sermon  at  St.  Clement's  Church,  in  the  Strand, 
where  his  beloved  wife  lay  buried,  he  took  for  hia 
text,  Jer.  iii.  v.  1  :  "  Lo  !  I  am  the  man  that  hath 
seen  affliction  ;"  and  sent  all  his  congregation  home 
In  tears. 

*  In  1617. 


DU,  DONNE   AND   HIS   WIFE.  83? 

#  #  #  #  * 

Among  Donne's  earlier  poetry  may  be  distin- 
guished the  following  little  song,  which  has  so  much 
more  harmony  and  elegance  than  his  other  pieces, 
that  it  is  scarcely  a  fair  specimen  of  his  style.  It 
was  long  popular,  and  I  can  remember,  when  a 
child,  hearing  it  sung  to  very  beautiful  music. 

Send  home  my  long  stray 'd  eyes  to  me, 
Which,  oh !  too  long  have  dwelt  on  thee ! 
But  if  from  thee  they've  Jearnt  such  ill, 

Such  forced  fashions 

And  false  passions, 

That  they  be 

Made  by  thee 
Fit  for  no  good  sight — keep  them  still ! 

Send  home  my  harmless  heart  again, 
Which  no  unworthy  thought  could  stain  I 
But  if  it  hath  been  taught  by  thine 

To  make  jestings 

Of  pretestings, 

To  forget  both 

Its  word  and  troth, 
Keep  it  still — 'tis  none  of  mine ! 

Perhaps  it  may  interest  some  readers  to  add,  that 
Donne's  famous  lines,  which  have  been  quoted 
id  infinitum, — 

The  pure  and  eloquent  blood 
Spoke  in  her  cheeks,  and  so  distinctly  wrought, 
Ye  might  have  almost  said  her  body  thought. 

irere  not  written  on  his  wife,  but  on   Elizabeth 
22 


838  CONJUGAL   POETRY. 

Drury,  +,he  only  daughter  of  his  patron  and  friend, 
Sir  Robert  Drury.  She  was  the  richest  heiress  in 
England,  the  wealth  of  her  father  being  considered 
almost  incalculable  ;  and  this,  added  to  her  singular 
beauty,  and  extraordinary  talents  and  acquire- 
ments, rendered  her  so  popularly  interesting,  that 
she  was  considered  a  fit  match  for  Henry,  Prince 
of  Wales.  She  died  in  her  sixteenth  year. 

Dr.  Donne  and  his  wife  were  maternal  ancestors 
of  the  poet  Cowper. 


CHAPTER  XXVH. 

CONJUGAL   POETRY,   CONTINUED. 

HABINGTON'S  OASTARA. 

ONE  of  the  most  elegant  monuments  ever  raised 
by  genius  to  conjugal  affection,  was  Habington'a 
Castara. 

William  Habington,  who  ranks  among  the  most 
graceful  of  our  old  minor  poets,  was  a  gentleman 
of  an  ancient  Roman  Catholic  family  in  Worcester- 
shire, and  born  in  1605.*  On  his  return  from  his 

*  It  was  the  mother  of  William  Habington  who  addressed  to 
her  brother,  Lord  Mounteagle,  that  extraordinary  letter  which 
led  to  the  discovery  of  the  Gunpowder  Plot.— Nasti's,  Histoiy  of 
Worcestershire. 


HABINGTON'S  CASTARA.  339 

travels,  he  saw  and  loved  Lucy  Herbert,  the 
daughter  of  Lord  Powis,  and  granddaughter  of  the 
Earl  of  Northumberland.  She  was  far  his  superior 
in  birth,  being  descended,  on  both  sides,  from  the 
noblest  blood  in  England ;  and  her  haughty  rela- 
tions at  first  opposed  their  union.  It  was.  however, 
merely  that  degree  of  opposition,  without  which 
the  "  course  of  true  love  would  have  run  too 
smooth."  It  was  just  sufficient  to  pique  the  ardor 
of  the  lover,  and  prove  the  worth  and  constancy 
of  her  he  loved.  The  history  of  their  attachment 
has  none  of  the  painful  interest  which  hangs  round 
that  of  Donne  and  his  wife :  it  is  a  picture  of  pure 
and  peaceful  happiness,  and  of  mutual  tenderness, 
on  which  the  imagination  dwells  with  a  soft  com- 
placency and  unalloyed  pleasure ;  with  nothing  of 
romance  but  what  was  borrowed  from  the  elegant 
mind  and  playful  fancy,  which  heightened  and 
embellished  the  delightful  reality. 

If  Habington  had  not  been  born  a  poet,  a  tomb- 
stone in  an  obscure  country  church  would  have 
been  the  only  memorial  of  himself  and  his  Castara. 
"  She  it  was  who  animated  his  imagination  with 
tenderness  and  elegance,  and  filled  it  with  imago? 
of  beauty,  purified  by  her  feminine  delicacy  from 
all  grosser  alloy."  In  return,  he  may  be  allowed 
to  exult  in  the  immortality  he  has  given  her. 

Thy  vows  are  heard !  and  thy  Castara's  name 
Is  writ  as  fair  i'  the  register  of  fame, 
As  the  ancient  beauties  which  translated  aw 
By  poets  up  to  heaven — each  there  a  star. 


540  CONJUGAL   POETRY. 


Fix'd  in  Love's  firmament  no  star  shall  shine 
So  nobly  fair,  so  purely  chaste  as  thine  ! 

The  collection  of  poems  which  Habington  dedi- 
cated  to  his  Castara,  is  divided  into  two  parts: 
those  written  before  his  marriage  he  has  entitled 
"  The  Mistress,"  those  written  subsequently,  "  The 
Wife." 

He  has  prefixed  to  the  whole  an  introduction  in 
prose,  written  with  some  quaintness,  but  more  feel- 
ing and  elegance,  in  which  he  claims  for  himself 
the  honor  of  being  the  first  conjugal  poet  in  our 
language.  To  use  his  own  words  :  "  Though  I 
appear  to  strive  against  the  stream  of  the  best  wita 
in  erecting  the  same  altar  to  chastity  and  love,  1 
will,  for  one,  adventure  to  do  well  without  a  prec- 
edent." 

Habington  had,  however,  been  anticipated,  as  we 
have  seen,  by  some  of  the  Italian  poets  whom  be 
has  imitated  :  he  has  a  little  of  the  recherche  and 
affectation  of  their  school,  and  is  not  untinctured 
by  the  false  taste  of  his  day.  He  has  not  great 
power,  nor  much  pathos;  but  these  defects  are 
redeemed  by  a  delicacy  of  expression  uncommon 
at  that  time  ;  by  the  interest  he  has  thrown  round 
a  love  as  pure  as  its  object,  and  by  the  most  exqui- 
site touches  of  fancy,  sentiment,  and  tenderness. 

Without  expressly  naming  his  wife  in  his  prefa- 
tory remarks,  he  alludes  to  her  very  beautifully  - 
and  exults,  with  a  modest  triumph,  in  the  value  of 
his  rich  possession. 


HABINGTON'S  CASTARA.  341 

"  How  unhappy  soever  I  may  be  in  the  elocution, 
I  am  sure  the  theme  is  worthy  enough.  *  *  *  Nor 
was  my  invention  ever  sinister  from  the  straight 
way  of  chastity  ;  and  when  love  builds  upon  that 
rock,  it  may  safely  contemn  the  battery  of  the 
waves,  and  the  threatenings  of  the  wind.  Since 
time,  that  makes  a  mockery  of  the  finest  structures, 
shall  ilself  be  ruined  before  that  be  demolished. 
Thus  was  the  foundation  laid  ;  and  though  my  eye, 
in  its  survey,  was  satisfied  even  to  curiosity,  yet 
did  not  my  search  rest  there.  The  alabaster,  ivory, 
porphyry,  jet,  that  lent  an  admirable  beauty  to  the 
outward  building,  entertained  me  with  but  half 
pleasure,  since  they  stood  there  only  to  make  sport 
for  ruin.  But  when  my  soul  grew  acquainted  with 
the  owner  of  that  mansion,  I  found  that  oratory 
was  dumb  when  it  began  to  speak  her." 

He  then  describes  her  wisdom ;  her  wit ;  hei 
innocence, — "  so  unvitiated  by  conversation  with 
the  world,  that  the  subtle- witted  of  her  sex  would 
have  termed  it  ignorance ; "  her  modesty  "  so 
timorous,  it  represented  a  besieged  city  standing 
watchfully  on  her  guard :  in  a  word,  all  those 
virtues  which  should  restore  woman  to  her  primi- 
tive state  of  virtue,  fully  adorned  her."  He  then 
prettily  apologizes  for  this  indiscreet  rhetoric  on 
such  a  subject.  "  Such,"  he  says,  "  I  fancied  her ; 
for  to  say  she  is,  or  was  such,  were  to  play  the  mer- 
chant, and  boast  too  much  of  the  value  of  the 
jewel  I  possess,  but  have  no  mind  to  part  with." 

He  concludes  with  this  just,  yet  modest  apprecia- 


842  CONJUGAL    POETKY. 

tion  of  himself,— :<  If  not  too  indulgent  to  what  ia 
mine  own,  I  think  even  these  verses  will  have  that 
proportion  in  the  world's  opinion,  that  heaven  hath 
allotted  me  in  fortune, — not  so  high  as  to  be 
wondered  at,  nor  so  low  as  to  be  contemned/' 

In  the  description  of  "  The  MISTRESS,"  aiv 
some  little  touches  inimitably  graceful  and  compli- 
mentary. Though  couched  in  general  terms,  it  is 
of  course  a  portrait  of  Lucy  Herbert,  such  as  she 
appeared  to  him  in  the  days  of  their  courtship,  and 
fondly  recalled  and  dwelt  upon,  when  she  had  been 
many  years  a  wife  and  a  mother.  He  represents 
her  "  as  fair  as  Nature  intended  her,  helpt,  per- 
haps, to  a  more  pleasing  grace  by  the  sweetness  of 
education,  not  by  the  slight  of  art."  This  discrim- 
ination is  delicately  drawn. — He  continues,  "  she  is 
young;  for  a  woman,  past  the  delicacy  of  her 
spring,  may  well  move  to  virtue  by  respect,  never 
by  beauty  to  affection.  In  her  carriage,  sober, 
thinking  her  youth  expresseth  life  enough,  without 
the  giddy  motion  fashion  of  late  hath  taken  up." 
— (This  was  early  in  the  reign  of  the  grave  and 
correct  Charles  the  First.  What  would  Habington 
have  said  of  the  flaunting,  fluttering,  voluble  beau- 
ties of  Charles  the  Second's  time  ?) 

He  extols  the  melody  of  her  voice,  her  knowl- 
edge of  music,  and  her  grace  in  the  dance  :  above 
all,  he  dwells  on  her  retiring  modesty,  the  favorite 
theme  of  his  praise  in  prose  and  verse,  which  seema 
to  have  been  the  most  striking  part  of  her  charac- 
ter, and  her  greatest  charm  in  the  eyes  of  her 


HABINGTON'S  CASTAKA.  343 

lover.  Re  concludes,  with  the  beautiful  sentiment 
I  have  chosen  as  a  motto  to  this  little  book. — 
"  Only  she,  who  hath  as  great  a  share  in  virtue  as 
in  beauty,  deserves  a  noble  love  to  serve  her,  and 
a  true  poesie  to  speak  her  ! " 

The  poems  are  all  short,  generally  in  the  form 
of  sonnets,  if  that  name  can  be  properly  applied  to 
all  poems  of  fourteen  lines,  whatever  the  rhyth- 
mical arrangement.  The  subjects  of  these,  and 
their  quaint  expressive  titles,  form  a  kind  of  chron- 
icle of  their  loves,  in  which  every  little  incident  is 
commemorated.  Thus  we  have,  "  To  Castara, 
inquiring  why  I  loved  her." — "  To  Castara,  softly 
singing  to  herself."  u  To  Castara,  leaving  him  on 
the  approach  of  night." — 

What  should  we  fear,  Castara?  the  cool  air 
That's  fallen  in  love,  and  wantons  in  thy  hair, 
Will  not  betray  our  whispers : — should  I  steal 
A  nectar' d  kiss,  the  wind  dares  not  reveal 
The  treasure  I  possess! 

"  To  Castara,  on  being  debarred  her  presence," 
(probably  by  her  father,  Lord  Powis.) — 

Banish' d  from  you,  I  charged  the  nimble  wind, 
My  unseen  messenger,  to  speak  my  mind 
In  amorous  whispers  to  you ! 

"  Upon  her  intended  journey  into  the  country." — 
l<  Upon  Seymors,"  (a  house  near  Marlow,  where 
Castara  resided  with  her  parents,  and  where,  it 
appears,  ho  was  not  allowed  to  visit  her.) — '  On  a 


844  CONJUGAL   POETRY. 

trembling  kiss  she  had  granted  him  on  her  depar- 
ture."    The  commencement  of  this  is  beautiful : 

The  Arabian  wind,  whose  breathing  gently  blows 
Purple  to  the  violet,  blushes  to  the  rose, 
Did  never  yield  an  odor  such  as  this ! 
Why  are  you  then  so  thrifty  of  a  kiss, 
Authorized  even  by  custom  ?     Why  doth  fear 
So  tremble  on  your  lip,  iny  lip  being  near? 

Then  we  have,  "  To  Castara,  on  visiting  her  in 
the  night" — This  alludes  to  a  meeting  of  the 
lovers,  at  a  time  they  were  debarred  from  each 
other's  society. 

The  following  are  more  exquisitely  graceful  than 
tny  thing  in  Waller,  yet  much  in  his  style. 

TO  ROSES  IN  THE  BOSOM  OF  CASTARA. 

Ye  blushing  virgins  happy  are 
In  the  chaste  nunnery  of  her  breast; 

For  he'd  profane  so  chaste  a  fair 
Who  e'er  should  call  it  Cupid's  nest. 

Transplanted  thus,  how  bright  ye  growl 

How  rich  a  perfume  do  ye  yield ! 
In  some  close  garden,  cowslips  so 

Are  sweeter  than  i'  the  open  field. 

In  those  white  cloisters  live  secure, 
From  the  rude  blasts  of  wanton  breatb 

Each  hour  more  innocent  and  pure, 
Till  ye  shall  wither  into  death. 

Then  that  which  living  gave  ye  room, 
Your  glorious  sepulchre  shall  be; 


HABINGTON'S  CASTARA.  345 

1  here  needs  no  marble  for  a  toinb, — 
That  breast  hath  marble  been  to  me ! 

The  epistle  to  Castara's  mother,  Lady  Eleanor 
Powis,  who  appears  to  have  looked  kindly  on  their 
love,  contains  some  very  beautiful  lines,  in  which 
he  asserts  the  disinterestedness  of  his  affection  for 
Castara,  rich  as  she  is  in  fortune,  and  derived  from 
the  blood  of  Charlemagne. 

My  love  is  envious !  would  Castara  were 
The  daughter  of  some  mountain  cottager, 
Who,  with  his  toil  worn  out,  could  dying  leave 
Her  no  more  dower  than  what  she  did  receive 
From  bounteous  Nature ;  her  would  I  then  lead 
To  the  temple,  rich  in  her  own  wealth ;  her  head 
Crowned  with  her  hair's  fair  treasure ;  diamonds  in 
Her  brighter  eyes ;  soft  ermines  in  her  skin, 
Each  India  in  her  cheek,  &c. 

This  first  part  closes  with  "  The  description  of 
Castara,"  which  is  extended  to  several  stanzas,  of 
unequal  merit.  The  following  compose  in  then* 
selves  a  sweet  picture  : 

Like  the  violet,  which  alone 
Prospers  in  some  happy  shade, 

My  Castara  lives  unknown, 
To  no  looser  eye  betray'd. 

For  she's  to  herself  untrue 

Who  delights  i'  the  public  view. 
*  *  * 

Such  her  beauty,  as  no  arts 
Have  enrich'd  witt  borrow  d  grace. 


346  CONJUGAL    POETRY. 

Her  high  birth  no  pride  imparts, 

For  she  blushes  in  her  place. 
Folly  boasts  a  glorious  blood — 
She  is  noblest,  being  good ! 

*  *  # 

She  her  throne  makes  reason  climb, 
While  wild  passion  captive  lie ; 

And  each  article  of  time 
Her  pui*e  thoughts  to  heaven  fly. 

All  her  vows  religious  be — 

And  her  love  she  vows  to  me ! 

The  second  part  of  these  poems,  dedicated  to 
Castara  as  "  the  WIFE,"  have  not  less  variety  and 
beauty,  though  there  were,  of  course,  fewer  inci- 
dents to  record.  The  first  Sonnet,  "  to  Castara, 
now  possest  of  her  marriage,"  beginning  "  This 
day  is  ours,"  &c.,  has  more  fancy  and  poetry  than 
tenderness.  The  lines  to  Lord  Powis,  the  father 
of  Castara,  on  the  same  occasion,  are  more  beauti- 
ful and  earnest,  yet  rich  in  fanciful  imagery.  Lord 
Powis,  it  must  be  remembered,  had  opposed  their 
union,  and  had  been,  with  difficulty,  induced  to 
give  his  consent.  The  following  lines  refer  to 
this;  and  Habington  asserts  the  purity  and  un- 
selfishness of  his  attachment. 

Nor  grieve,  my  Lord,  'tis  perfected.     Before 

Afflicted  seas  sought  refuge  on  the  shore, 

From  the  angry  north  wind ;  ere  the  astonish'd  spring 

Heard  in  the  air  the  feathered  people  sing; 

Ere  time  had  motion,  or  the  sun  obtained 

His  province  o'er  the  day — this  was  ordained. 


>  T.TT 
HABINGTON'S  CASTARA.|I  34/  .; 


Nor  think  in  her  I  courted  wealth  or  bl 

Or  more  uncertain  hopes ;  for  had  I  stood 

On  the  highest  ground  of  fortune, — the  world  kr<iwn 

No  greatness  but  what  waited  on  my  throne — 

And  she  had  only  had  that  face  and  mind, 

I  with  myself,  had  th'  earth  to  her  resigned. 

In  virtue  there's  an  emph*e ! 

Here  I  rest, 

As  all  things  to  my  power  subdued ;  to  me 
There's  naught  beyond  this,  the  whole  world  is  SHE  ! 

On  the  anniversary  of  their  wedding-day,  b« 
thus  addresses  her : — 

LOVE'S  ANNIVERSARY. 

Thou  art  return'd  (great  light)  to  that  blest  hc'ar 
In  which  I  first  by  marriage,  (sacred  power!) 
Joined  with  Castara  hearts;  and  as  the  same 
Thy  lustre  is,  as  then, — so  is  our  flame ; 
Which  had  increased,  but  that  by  Love's  decree, 
'Twas  such  at  first,  it  ne'er  could  greater  be. 
But  tell  me,  (glorious  lamp,)  in  thy  survey 
Of  things  below  thee,  what  did  not  decay 
By  age  or  weakness  ?    I  since  that  have  seen 
The  rose  bud  forth  and  fade,  the  tree  grow  green, 
And  wither  wrinkled.     Even  thyself  dost  yield 

Something  to  time,  and  to  thy  grave  fall  nigher; 

But  virtuous  love  is  one  sweet  endless  fire. 

*•  T;  Castara,  on  the  knowledge  of  love,"  is 
peculiarly  elegant ;  it  was,  probably,  suggested  by 
some  speculative  topics  of  conversation,  discussed 
in  the  literary  circle  he  had  drawn  around  him  at 
Hindlip.* 

*  The  family  seat  of  the  Habingtons,  in  Worcestershire- 


848  CONJUGAL    POKTRY. 

Where  sleeps  the  north  wind  when  the  south  umpire* 

Life  in  the  Spring,  and  gathers  into  quires 

The  scatter'd  nightingales;  whose  subtle  ears 

Heard  first  the  harmonious  language  of  the  spheres ; 

Whence  hath  the  stone  magnetic  force  t'  allure, 

Th'  enamor'd  iron;  from  a  seed  impure, 

Or  natural,  did  first  the  mandrake  grow; 

What  power  in  the  ocean  makes  it  flow; 

What  strange  materials  is  the  azure  sky 

Compacted  of;  of  what  its  brightest  eye 

The  ever  flaming  sun ;  what  people  are 

In  th'  unknown  worlds;  what  worlds  in  every  star:— 

Let  curious  fancies  at  these  secrets  rove ; 

Castara,  what  we  know  we'll  practise — love. 

The  "  Lines  on  her  fainting ; "  those  on  "  The 
fear  of  Death," — 

Why  should  we  fear  to  melt  away  in  death  ? 
May  we  but  die  together !  &c. 

On  her  sigh, — 

Were  but  that  sigh  a  penitential  breath 
That  thou  art  mine,  it  would  blow  with  it  death, 
T'  inclose  me  in  my  marble,  where  I'd  be 
Slave  to  the  tyrant  worms  to  set  thee  free! 

His  self-congratulation  on  his  own  happiness,  in 
his  epistle  to  his  uncle,  Lord  Morley,  are  all  in 
the  same  strain  of  gentle  and  elegant  feeling.  The 
following  are  among  the  last  addressed  to  his  wife 

Give  me  a  heart,  where  no  impure 

Disorder'd  passion  rage; 

Which  jealousie  doth  not  obscure, 


HABINGTON'S  CASTARA.  849 

Nor  vanity  t'  expense  engage ; 
.  Nor  wooed  to  madness  by  quaint  oathes, 
Or  the  line  rhetorick  of  cloathes ; 
Which  not  the  softness  of  the  age 
To  vice  or  folly  doth  decline ; 
Give  me  that  heart,  Castara,  for  'tis  th  ie. 

Take  thou  a  heart,  where  no  new  look 

Provokes  new  appetite ; 

With  no  fresh  charm  of  beauty  took, 

Or  wanton  stratagem  of  wit; 

Not  idly  wandering  here  and  there, 

Led  by  an  am'rous  eye  or  ear; 

Aiming  each  beauteous  mark  to  hit; 

Which  virtue  doth  to  one  confine ; 

Take  thou  that  heart,  Castara,  for  'tis  mine. 

It  was  owing  to  his  affection  for  his  wife,  as  well 
as  his  own  retired  and  studious  habits,  that  Habing- 
ton  lived  through  the  civil  wars  without  taking  any 
active  part  on  either  side.  It  should  seem,  that,  at 
«uch  a  period,  no  man  of  a  lofty  and  generous 
spirit  could  have  avoided  joining  the  party  or 
principles,  either  of  Falkland  and  Grandison,  or 
of  Hampden  and  Hutchinson.  But  Habington's 
family  had  already  suffered,  in  fortune  and  in 
fame  by  their  interference  with  state  matters; 
and  without,  in  any  degree,  implicating  himself 
with  either  party,  he  passed  through  those  stormy 
and  eventful  times, 

As  one  who  dreams 
Of  idleness,  in  groves  Elysian; 

and  died  in  the  first  year  of  the  Protector?^,  1654. 


350  CONJUGAL   POETRY. 

I  cannot  discover  the  date  of  Castara's  death  ;  but 
she  died  some  years  before  her  husband,  leaving 
only  one  son. 

There  is  one  among  the  poems  of  the  second 
part  of  Castara,  which  I  cannot  pass  without  re- 
mark ;  it  is  the  Elegy  which  Habington  addressed 
to  his  wife,  on  the  death  of  her  friend,  Venetia 
Digby,  the  consort  of  the  famous  Sir  Kenelm 
Digby.  She  was  the  most  beautiful  woman  of  her 
time :  even  Lord  Clarendon  steps  aside  from  the 
gravity  of  history,  to  mention  "  her  extraordinary 
beauty,  and  as  extraordinary  fame."  Her  picture 
at  Windsor  is,  indeed,  more  like  a  vision'  of  ideal 
loveliness,  than  any  form  that  ever  trod  the  earth.* 
She  was  descended  from  the  Percies  and  the 
Stanleys,  and  was  first  cousin  to  Habington's  Cas- 
tara, their  mothers  being  sisters.  The  magnificent 
spirit  of  her  enamored  husband,  surrounded  her 
with  the  most  gorgeous  adornments  that  ever  were 
invented  by  vanity  or  luxury :  and  thus  she  was, 
one  day,  found  dead  on  her  couch,  her  hand  sup- 
porting her  head,  in  the  attitude  of  one  asleep. 
Habington's  description  exactly  agrees  with  the 
picture  at  Althorpe,  painted  after  her  death  by 
Vandyke. 

*  There  are  also  four  pictures  of  her  at  Strawberry  HH1,  and 
one  of  her  mother,  Lady  Lucy  Percy,  exquisitely  beautiful.  At 
Gothurst,  there  is  a  picture  of  her,  and  a  bust,  which,  after  her 
death,  her  husband  placed  in  hia  chamber,  with  this  tender  and 
Beautiful  inscription: 

Uzorem  amare  vivam,  voluptas;  defunctam,  religio 


MABINGTON'S  CASTARA.  851 

What's  honor  but  a  hatchment?  what  is  here 
Of  Percy  left,  or  Stanley,  names  most  dear 
To  virtue  ? 

Or  what  avails  her  that  she  once  was  led 
A  glorious  bride  to  valiant  Digby's  bed? 

She,  when  whatever  rare 
The  either  Indies  boast,  lay  richly  spread 
For  her  to  wear,  lay  on  her  pillow  dead  ! 

There  is  no  piercing  the  mystery  which  hangs 
round  the  story  of  this  beautiful  creature  :  that  a 
stigma  rested  on  her  character,  and  that  she  waa 
exculpated  from  it,  whatever  it  might  be,  seems 
proved,  by  the  doves  and  serpents  introduced  into 
several  portraits  of  her ;  the  first,  emblematical  of 
her  innocence,  and  the  latter,  of  her  triumph  over 
slander  :  and  not  less  by  these  lines  of  Habington. 
If  Venetia  Digby  had  been,  as  Aubrey  and  others 
insinuate,  abandoned  to  profligacy,  and  a  victim  to 
her  husband's  jealousy,  Habington  would  scarce 
have  considered  her  noble  descent  and  relationship 
to  his  Castara  as  a  matter  of  pride ;  or  her  death 
as  a  subject  of  tender  condolence ;  or  the  awful 
manner  of  it  a  peculiar  blessing  of  Heaven,  ar-d 
the  reward  of  her  virtues. 

Come  likewise,  my  Castara,  and  behold 
What  blessings  ancient  prophecy  foretold, 
Bestow'd  on  her  in  death;  she  past  away 
So  sweetly  from  the  world  as  if  her  clay 
Lay  only  down  to  slumber.    Then  forbear 
To  let  on  her  blest  ashes  fall  a  tear : 
Or  if  thou'rt  too  much  woman,  softly  weep, 
Lest  grief  disturb  the  silence  of  her  sleep! 


352  CONJUGAL   POETRY. 

The  author  of  the  introduction  to  the  curious 
Memoirs  of  Sir  Kenelm  Digby,  has  proved  the 
absolute  falsehood  of  some  of  Aubrey's  assertions, 
and  infers  the  improbability  of  others.  But  these 
beautiful  lines  by  Habington,  seem  to  have  escaped 
his  notice ;  and  they  are  not  slight  evidence  in 
Venetia's  favor.  On  the  whole,  the  mystery  re- 
mains unexplained ;  a  cloud  has  settled  forever  on 
the  true  story  of  this  .extraordinary  creature 
Neither  the  pen  nor  the  sword  of  her  husband 
could  entirely  clear  her  fame  in  her  own  age  :  he 
could  only  terrify  slander  into  silence,  and  it  died 
away  into  an  indistinct  murmur,  of  which  the  echo 
alone  has  reached  our  time. — But  this  is  enough : — 
the  echo  of  an  echo  could  whisper  into  naught  a 
woman's  fair  name.  The  idea  of  a  creature  so 
formed  in  the  prodigality  of  nature ;  so  completely 
and  faultlessly  beautiful ;  so  nobly  born  and  allied ; 
so  capable  (as  she  showed  herself  on  various  occa- 
sions) of  high  generous  feeling,*  of  delicacy  ,f  of 
fortitude,^  of  tenderness ;  §  depraved  by  her  own 
vices,  or  "  done  to  death  by  slanderous  tongues,** 
is  equally  painful  and  heart-sickening.  The  image 
of  the  aspic  trailing  its  slime  and  its  venom  over 
Che  bosom  of  Cleopatra,  is  not  more  abhorrent. 

*  Memoirs  of  Sir  Kenelm  Digby,  pp.  211,  224.    Introduction, 
,».27. 

t  Memoirs,  pp.  205,  213.    Introduction,  p.  28. 
$  Memoirs,  p.  254.  §  Memoirs,  p.  806. 


THE   TWO    ZAPPI.  353 

CHAPTER  XXVin. 

CONJUGAL   POETRY,   CONTINUED. 

THE  TWO  ZAPPI. 

WE  find  among  the  minor  poets  of  Italy,  a 
•charming,  and  I  believe  a  singular  instance  of  a 
husband  and  a  wife,  both  highly  gifted,  devoting 
their  talents  to  celebrate  each  other.  These  were 
Giambattista  Zappi,*  the  famous  Roman  advocate, 
and  his  wife'  Faustina,  the  daughter  of  Carlo  Mar- 
atti,  the  painter. 

Zappi,  after  completing  his  legal  studies  at  Bo- 
logna, came  to  reside  at  Rome,  where  he  distin- 
guished  himself  in  his  profession,  and  was  one  of 
the  founders  of  the  academy  of  the  Areadii. 
Faustina  Maratti  was  many  years  younger  than  her 
husband,  and  extremely  beautiful :  she  was  her 
father's  favorite  model  for  his  Madonnas,  Muses, 
and  Vestal  Virgins.  From  a  description  of  her, 
in  an  Epithalamium  f  on  her  marriage,  it  appears 
that  her  eyes  and  hair  were  jet  black,  her  features 
regular,  and  her  complexion  pale  and  delicate ;  a 
style  of  beauty  which,  in  its  perfection,  is  almost 
peculiar  to  Italy.  To  the  mutual  tenderness  of 

*  Born  at  Imola,  1668;  died  at  Rome,  1719. 
t  See  the  Epithalamium  on  her  marriage  with  Zappi,  prefix*)) 
o  their  works. 

23 


354  CONJUGAL    POETRY. 

these  married  lovers,  we  owe  some  of  the  most  ele« 
gant  among  the  lighter  Italian  lyrics.  Zap  pi,  in  a 
Sonnet  addressed  to  his  wife  some  time  after  their 
union,  reminds  her,  with  a  tender  exultation,  of 
the  moment  they  first  met;  when  she  swept  by 
him  in  all  the  pride  of  beauty,  careless  or  uncon- 
scious of  his  admiration, — and  he  bowed  low  before 
her,  scarcely  daring  to  lift  his  eyes  on  the  charms 
that  were  destined  to  bless  him  ;  "  Who,"  he  says, 
"would  then  have  whispered  me,  the  day  will 
come  when  you  will  smile  to  remember  her  dis- 
dain, for  all  this  blaze  of  beauty  was  created  for 
you  alone  ! "  or  would  have  said  to  her,  "  Know 
you  who  is  destined  to  touch  that  virgin  heart? 
Even  he,  whom  you  now  pass  by  without  even  a 
look !  Such  are  the  miracles  of  love  ! " 

La  prima  volta  ch'  io  m'  avemri  in  quella 
Ninfa,  che  il  cor  m'  accese,  e  ancor  1'accende, 
Io  dissi,  6  donna  o  dea,  ninfa  si  bella? 
Giunse  dal  prato,  o  pur  dal  ciel  discende? 

La  fronte  inchinb  in  umil  atto,  ed  ella 
La  merc6  pur  d'un  sguardo  a  me  non  rende; 
Qual  vagheggiata  in  cielo,  o  luna,  o  Stella, 
Che  segue  altera  il  suo  viaggio,  e  splende. 

Chi  detto  avesse  a  me,  "  costci  ti  sprez'ia, 
Ma  un  di  ti  riderai  del  suo  rigore ! 
Che  nacque  sol  per  te  tanta  bellezza." 

Chi  detto  avesse  ad  ella :  "  II  tuo  bel  core 
Sai  chi  1'avra?  Costui  ch'  or  non  t'  apprezza  " 
Or  negate  i  miracoli  d'Amore! 


THE    TWO    ZAPPI.  355 

The  first  Sonnet  in  Faustina's  Canzoniere, 
Dolce  sollievo  delle  umane  cure, 

is  ail  eulogium  on  her  husband,  and  describes  hei 
own  confiding  tenderness.  It  is  full  of  grace  and 
sweetness,  and  feminine  feeling : 

Soave  cortesl  a  vezzosi  accenti, 
Virtu,  senno,  valor  d'alraa  gentile, 
Spogliato  hanno  '1  mio  cor  d'ogni  timore; 

Or  tu  gli  affetti  miei  puri  innocent! 
Pasci  cortese,  e  non  cangiar  tuo  stile 
Dolce  sollievo  de'  miei  mali,  amore ! 

Others  are  of  a  melancholy  character ;  and  one  or 
two  allude  to  the  death  of  an  infant  son,  whom  she 
tenderly  laments.  But  the  most  finished  of  all  her 
poems  is  a  Sonnet  addressed  to  a  lady  whom  her 
husband  had  formerly  loved ;  *  the  sentiment  of 
which  is  truly  beautiful  and  feminine  :  never  was 
jealousy  so  amiably,  or  so  delicately  expressed. 
There  is  something  very  dramatic  and  picturesque 
in  the  apostrophe  which  Faustina  addresses  to  her 
rival,  and  in  the  image  of  the  lady  "  casting  down 
her  large  bright  eyes ; "  as  well  as  affecting  in  the 
abrupt  recoil  of  feeling  in  the  last  lines. 

*  Probably  the  same  he  had  celebrated  under  tho  name  of 
Filli,  and  who  married  another.  Zappi's  Sonnet  to  this  lady 
•'  Ardo  per  Filliv"  is  elaborately  elegant ;  sparkling  and  pointed 
V>  a  pyramid  of  gsrns. 


556  CONJUGAL   POETRY 

8ONNETTO. 

Donna!  che  tanto  almio  bel  soi  piacesti! 
Che  aucor  de'  pregi  tuoi  parla  sovente, 
Lodando,  ora  il  bel  crinc,  ora  il  ridente 
Tuo  labbro,  ed  ora  i  saggi  detti  onesti. 

Dimmi,  quando  le  voci  a  lui  volgesti 
Tacque  egli  mai,  qual  uom  che  nulla,  sente  ? 
0  le  turbate  luci  alteramente, 
(Come  a  me  volge)  a  te  volger  vedesti? 

De  tuoi  bei  lumi,  a  le  due  chiare  faci 
lo  so  ch'  egli  arse  un  tempo,  e  so  che  allora — 
Ma  tu  declini  al  suol  gli  occhi  vivaci! 

Veggo  il  rossor  che  le  tue  guance  infiora, 
Parla,  rispondi!     Ah  non  rispondi!  taci 
Taci !  se  mi  vuoi  dir  ch'  ei  t'  ama  ancora ! 

TRANSLATION. 

Lady,  that  once  so  charm'd  my  life's  fair  Sun,* 
That  of  thy  beauties  still  he  talketh  oft,— 
Thy  mouth,  fair  hair,  and  words  discreet  and  soft. 
Speak!  when  thou  look'dst,  was  he  from  silence  won? 
Or,  did  he  turn  those  sweet  and  troubled  eyes 
On  thee,  and  gaze  as  now  on  me  he  gazeth  ? 
(For  ah!  I  know  thy  love  was  then  the  prize, 
And  then  he  felt  the  grace  that  still  he  praiseth.) 
But  why  dost  thou  those  beaming  glances  turn 
Thus  downwards?     Ah!  I  see  (against  thy  will) 
All  o'er  thy  cheek  the  crimsoning  blushes  burn. 
Speak  out !  oh  answer  me ! — yet,  no,  no, — stay ! 
Be  dumb,  be  silent,  if  thou  need'st  must  say 
That  he  who  once  adored  thee,  loves  thee  still.f 

*  "  II  mio  bel  sol  "  is  a  poetical  term  of  endearment,  which  il 
aot  easy  to  reduce  gracefully  into  English. 
t  Translated  by  a  friend. 


THE    TWO    ZAPPI.  •  S57 

Neither  Zappi  nor  his  wife  were  authors  by 
profession:  her  poems  are  few;  and  all  seem  to 
flow  from  some  incident  or  feeling,  which  awakened 
her  genius,  and  caused  that  "  craving  of  the  heart 
and  the  fancy  to  break  out  into  voluntary  song, 
which  men  call  inspiration."  She  became  a  mem- 
ber of  the  Arcadia,  under  the  pastoral  name  of 
Aglaura  Cidonia ;  and  it  is  remarkable,  that  though 
she  survived  her  husband  many  years,  I  cannot 
find  any  poem  referring  to  her  loss,  nor  of  a  subse- 
quent date;  neither  did  she  marry  again,  though 
in  the  prime  of  her  life  and  beauty. 

Zappi  was  a  great  and  celebrated  lawyer,  and 
his  legal  skill  raised  him  to  an  office  of  trust,  under 
the  Pontificate  of  Clement  XI.  In  one  of  his 
Sonnets,  which  has  great  sweetness  and  picturesque 
effect,  he  compares  himself  to  the  Venetian  Gon- 
dolier, who  in  the  calm  or  the  storm  pours  forth 
his  songs  on  the  Lagune,  careless  of  blame  or 
praise,  asking  no  auditors  but  the  silent  seas  and 
the  quiet  moon,  and  seeking  only  to  "  unburthen 
his  full  soul "  in  lays  of  love  and  joy — 

II  Gondolier,  sebbeij  la  notte  imbruna, 
Remo  non  posa,  e  fende  il  mar  spumante; 
Lieto  cantando  a  un  bel  raggio  di  Luna — 
"  Intanto  Erminia  infra  1'  ombrose  piante." 

That  Zappi  could  be  sublime,  is  proved  by  his 
well-known  Sonnet  on  the  Moses  of  Michel  An- 
gelo;  but  his  forte  is  the  graceful  and  the  gay. 
His  Anacreontics,  and  particularly  his  little  drink- 
xng  song, 

Come  farb  ?    Far6  cosl ! 


JJC»S  CONJUGAL    POETRY. 

are  very  elegant,  and  almost  equal  to  Chiaorura. 
Il  is  difficult  to  sympathize  with  English  drinking 
songs,  and  all  the  vulgar  associations  of  flowing 
bowls,  taverns,  three  times  three,  and  the  table  in 
a  roar.  An  Italian  Brindisi  transports  us  at  once 
among  flasks  and  vineyards,  guitars  and  dances,  a 
dinner  al  fresco,  a  group  a  la  Stothard.  It  is  all 
the  difference  between  the  ivy-crowned  Bacchus, 
and  the  bloated  Silenus.  "  Bumper,  Squire  Jones," 
or  "  Waiter,  bring  clean  glasses,"  do  not  sound  so 
well  as 

Damigella 

Tutta  bella 
Versa,  versa,  il  bel  vino  I  &o. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

CONJUGAL  POETRY,   CONTINUED. 

• 

LOBD  LYTTELTON. 

LORD  LYTTELTON  has  told  us  in  a  very  sweet 
line, 

How  much  the  wife  is  dearer  than  the  bride. 

But   his   Lucy  Fortescue   deserves   more  than  a 
mere  allusion,  en  passant.     That  Lord  Lyttelton 


LORD    LYTTELTOX.  359 

is  still  remembered  and  read  as  a  poet,  is  solely  for 
her  sake :  it  is  she  who  has  made  the  shades  of 
Hagley  classic  ground,  and  hallowed  its  precincts 
by  the  remembrance  of  the  fair  and  gentle  being, 
the  tender  woman,  wife,  and  mother,  who  in  the 
prime  of  youth  and  loveliness,  melted  like  a  crea- 
ture of  air  and  light  from  her  husband's  arms, 

"And  left  him  on  tills  earth  disconsolate !  " 

That  the  verses  she  inspired  are  still  popular,  is 
owing  to  the  power  of  truth,  which  has  here  given 
lasting  interest  to  what  were  otherwise  mediocre. 
Lord  Lyttelton  was  not  much  of  a  poet ;  but  his 
love  was  real ;  its  object  was  real,  beautiful,  and 
good  :  thus  buoyed  up,  in  spite  of  his  own  faults 
and  the  change  of  taste,  he  has  survived  the  rest 
of  the  rhyming  gentry  of  his  time,  who  wrote 
epigrams  on  fans  and  shoe-buckles, — songs  to  the 
Duchess  of  this  and  Countess  of  that — and  elegies 
to  Miras,  Delias,  and  Chloes. 

Lucy  Fortescue,  daughter  of  Hugh  Fortescue, 
Esq.,  of  Devonshire,  and  grand -daughter  of  Lord 
Aylmer,  was  born  in  1718.  She  was  about  two- 
aud-twenty  when  Lord  Lyttelton  first  became  at- 
tached to  her,  and  he  was  in  his  thirty-first  year  : 
in  person  and  character,  she  realized  all  he  had 
imagined  in  his  "Advice  to  Belinda." 

"  Without,  all  beauty — and  all  peace  within. 

***** 
Blest  is  the  maid,  and  Avorthy  to  be  blest, 
Whose  soul,  entire  by  him  she  loves  possest, 


860  CONJUGAL    POETRY. 

Feels  every  vanity  in  fondness  lost, 
And  asks  no  power,  but  that  of  pleasing  most: 
Hers  is  the  bliss,  in  just  return  to  prove 
The  honest  warmth  of  undissembled  love; 
For  her,  inconstant  man  might  cease  to  range, 
And  gratitude  forbid  desire  to  change." 

To  the  more  peculiar  attributes  of  her  sex,— 
beauty  and  tenderness, — she  united  all  the  advan 
tages  of  manner, — 

Polite  as  she  in  courts  had  ever  been; 
and  wit, — the  only  wit  that  becomes  a  woman, — 

That  temperately  bright 
With  inoffensive  light 
All  pleasing  shone,  nor  ever  past 
The  decent  bounds  that  wisdom's  sober  hand 
And  sweet  benevolence's  mild  command, 
And  bashful  modesty  before  it  cast. 

Her  education  was  uncommon  for  the  time ;  for 
then,  a  woman,  who  to  youth  and  elegance  and 
beauty,  united  a  familiar  acquaintance  with  the 
literature  of  her  own  country,  French,  Italian,  and 
the  classics,  was  distinguished  among  her  sex.  She 
had  many  suitors,  and  her  choice  was  equally  to 
her  own  honor  and  that  of  her  lover.  Lord  Lyt- 
telton  was  not  rich  ;  his  father,  Sir  Thomas  Lyttel- 
ton,  being  still  alive.  He  had,  perhaps,  never 
dreamed  of  the  coronet  which  late  in  life  descended 
on  his  brow :  and  far  from  possessing  a  captivating 
exterior,  he  was  extremely  plain  in  person,  "  of  a 


TORD    LYTTELTON.  361 

feeble,  ill-compacted  figure,  and  a  meagre  sallow 
countenance."  *  But  talents,  elegance  of  mind, 
and  devoted  affection,  had  the  influence  they  ought 
to  have,  and  generally  do  possess,  in  the  mind  of  a 
woman.  We  are  told  that  our  sex's  "  earliest, 
latest  care, — our  heart's  supreme  ambition,"  is  "  to 
be  fair."  Even  Madame  de  Stael  would  have 
given  half  her  talents  for  half  Madame  Recamier's 
.  beauty  !  and  why  ?  because  the  passion  of  our 
sex  is  to  please  and  to  be  loved ;  and  men  have 
taught  us,  that  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten  we  are 
valued  merely  for  our  personal  advantages:  they 
can  scarce  believe  that  women,  generally  speaking, 
are  so  indifferent  to  the  mere  exterior  of  a  man, — 
that  it  has  so  little  power  to  interest  their  vanity  or 
affections.  Let  there  be  something  for  their  hearts 
to  honor,  and  their  weakness  to  repose  on,  and 
feeling  and  imagination  supply  the  rest.  In  this 
respect,  the  "  gentle  lady  married  to  the  Moor," 
who  saw  her  lover's  visage  in  his  mind,  is  the  type 
of  our  sex ; — the  instances  are  without  number. 
The  Frenchman  triumphs  a  little  too  much  en 
petit  maitre,  who  sings, 

Grands  Dieux,  combien  elle  est  jolie! 
Et  moi,  je  suis,  je  suis  si  laid ! 

He  might  have  spared  his  exultation :  if  he  had 
sense,  and  spirit,  and  tenderness,  he  had  all  that  is 
necessary  to  please  a  woman,  who  is  worthy  to  b« 
pleased. 

*  Johnson's  Life  of  Lord  Lyttelton. 


362  CONJUGAL   POETRY. 

Personal  vanity  in  a  woman,  however  misdi- 
rected, arises  from  the  idea,  that  our  power  with 
those  we  wish  to  charm,  is  founded  on  beauty  as  a 
female  attribute ;  it  is  never  indulged  but  with  a 
reference  to  another — it  is  a  means,  not  an  end. 
Personal  vanity  in  a  man  is  sheer  unmingled  ego- 
tism, and  an  unfailing  subject  of  ridicule  and  con- 
tempt with  all  women — be  they  wise  or  foolish. 

To  return  from  this  long  tirade  to  Lucy  Fortes-  , 
cue. — After  the  usual  fears  and  hopes,  the  impa- 
tience and  anxious  suspense  of  a  long  courtship,* 
Lord  Lyttelton  won  his  Lucy,  and  thought  himself 
olest — and  was  so.  Five  revolving  years  of  hap- 
piness seemed  pledges  of  its  continuance,  and  "  the 
wheels  of  pleasure  moved  without  the  aid  of  hope :" 
it  was  at  the  conclusion  of  the  fifth  year,  he  wrote 
the  lines  on  the  anniversary  of  his  marriage,  in 
which  he  exults  in  his  felicity,  and  in  the  posses- 
sion of  a  treasure,  which  even  then,  though  he 
knew  it  not,  was  fading  in  his  arms. 

Whence  then  this  strange  increase  cf  joy? 
He,  only  he  can  tell,  who,  matched  like  me, 
(If  such  another  happy  man  there  be,) 
Has  by  his  own  experience  tried 
How  much  the  wife  is  dearer  than  the  bride! 

Six  months  afterwards,  his  Lucy  was  seized  witl 
*  See  in  his  Poems,— the  lines  beginrjng 

On  Thames's  banks  a  gentle  youth 
For  Lucy  sighed  with  matchless  truth, 

Tout  shape,  your  lips,  your  eyes  are  still  the  same. 


LORD    LYTTELTON.  368 

the  illnese  of  which  she  died  in  her  twenty-ninth 
year,  leaving  three  infants,  the  eldest  not  four 
years  old.*  As  there  are  people  who  strangely 
unite,  as  inseparable,  the  ideas  of  fiction  and  rhyme, 
and  doubt  the  sincerity  of  her  husband's  grief,  be- 
cause he  wrote  a  monody  on  her  memory,  he  shall 
speak  for  himself  in  prose.  The  following  is  an 
extract  from  his  letter  to  his  father,  written  two 
days  before  her  death. 

"  I  believe  God  supports  me  above  my  own 
strength,  for  the  sake  of  my  friends  who  are  con- 
cerned for  me,  and  in  return  for  the  resignation 
with  which  I  endeavor  to  submit  to  his  will.  If  it 
please  Him,  in  his  infinite  mercy,  to  restore  my 
dear  wife  to  me,  I  shall  most  thankfully  acknowl- 
edge his  goodness  ;  if  not,  I  shall  most  humbly  en- 
dure his  chastisement,  which  J  have  too  much 
deserved.  These  are  the  sentiments  with  which 
my  mind  is  replete  ;  but  as  it  is  still  a  most  bitter 
cup,  how  my  body  will  bear  it,  if  it  must  not  pass 
from  me,  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  foretell ;  but  I 
hope  the  best.— Jan.  17th,  1742." 

I  imagine  Dr.  Johnson  meant  a  sneer  at  Lord  Lyt- 
telton,  when  he  says  laconically, — "  his  wife  died, 
and  he  solaced  himself  by  writing  a  long  monody 
on  her  memory." — In  these  days  we  might  naturally 

*  Her  son  was  that  eccentric  and  profligate  Lord  Lyttelton 
whose  supernatural  death-bed  horrors  have  been  the  subject  of 
BO  much  speculation.  He  left  no  children. 

The  present  Earl  of  Mountnorris,  (so  distinguished  for  hij 
Oriental  travels  when  Lord  Valentia,)  is  the  grandson  of  Lucy 
tfortescue. 


364  CONJUGAL   POETRY. 

exclaim  against  a  widowed  husband  who  should 
solace  himself  by  apostrophes  to  the  Muses  and 
Graces,  and  bring  in  the  whole  Aoniau  choir, — 
Pindus  and  Castalia,  Aganippe's  fount,  and  Thes- 
pian vales;  the  Clitumnus  and  the  Illissus,  and 
such  Pagan  and  classical  embroidery. — What 
should  we  have  thought  of  Lord  Byron's  famous 
"  Fare  thee  well,"  if  conceived  in  this  style  ? — but 
such  was  the  poetical  vocabulary  of  Lord  Lyttel- 
toi/s  day:  and  that  he  had  not  sufficient  genius 
and  originality  to  rise  above  it  is  no  argument 
against  the  sincerity  of  his  grief.  Petrarch  and 
his  Laura  (apropos  to  all  that  has  ever  been  sung 
or  said  of  love  for  five  hundred  years)  are  called 
in  a  very  commonplace  strain,  from  their  "  Elysian 
bowers  ; "  and  then  follow  some  lines  of  real  and 
touching  beauty,  because  they  owe  nothing  to  art 
or  effort,  but  are  the  immediate  result  of  truth  and 
feeling.  He  is  still  apostrophizing  Petrarch. 

What  were,  alas!  thy  woes  compar'd  to  mine? 
To  thee  thy  mistress  in  the  blissful  band 
Of  Hymen  never  gave  her  hand ; 
The  joys  of  wedded  love  were  never  thine ! 

In  thy  domestic  care 

She  never  bore  a  share ; 

Nor  with  endearing  art 

Would  heal  thy  wounded  heart 
Of  every  secret  grief  that  festcr'd  there: 
Nor  did  her  fond  affection  on  the  bed 
Of  sickness  watch  thee,  and  thy  languid  head 
Whole  nights  on  her  unwearied  arm  sustain, 

And  o.h.arm  away  the  sense  of  pain: 


LORD   LYTTELTOX.  365 

Nor  did  she  crown  your  mutual  flame 
With  pledges  dear,  and  with  a  father's  tender  name. 
*.***« 

How  in  the  world,  to  me  a  desert  grown, 
Abandon'd  and  alone, 

Without  my  sweet  companion  can  I  live '? 
Without  her  lovely  smile, 
The  dear  reward  of  every  virtuous  toil, 

What  pleasures  now  can  pall'd  Ambition  give? 

One  would  wish  to  think  that  Lord  Lyttelton  was 
faithful  to  the  memory  of  his  Lucy :  but  he  was 
neither  more  nor  less  than  man  ;  and  in  the  im- 
patience of  grief,  or  unable  to  live  without  that 
domestic  happiness  to  which  his  charming  wife  had 
accustomed  him,  he  married  again,  about  two  years 
after  her  death,  and  too  precipitately.  His  second 
choice  was  Elizabeth  Rich,  eldest  daughter  of  Sir 
Robert  Rich.  Perhaps  he  expected  too  much  ;  and 
how  few  women  could  have  replaced  Lucy  For- 
tescue !  The  experiment  proved  a  most  unfor- 
tunate one,  and  added  bitterness  to  his  regrets. 
He  devoted  the  rest  of  his  life  to  politics  and  lite- 
rature. 

About  ten  years  after  his  second  marriage,  Lord 
Lyttelton  made  a  tour  into  Wales  with  a  gay  party. 
On  some  occasion,  while  they  stood  contemplating 
a  scene  of  uncommon  picturesque  beauty,  he  turned 
to  a  friend,  and  asked  him,  with  enthusiasm,  whether 

was  possible  to  behold  a  more  pleasing  sight  ? 
Yes,  answered  the  other — the  countenance  of  the 
woman  one  loves  !  Lord  Lyttelton  shrunk,  as  if 


366  CONJUGAL   POETRY. 

probed  to  the  quick ;  and  after  a  moment's  silence, 
replied  pensively — "  Once,  I  thought  so ! "  * 

Lord  Lyttelton  brings  to  mind  his  friend  and 
patron,  Frederick,  Prince  of  Wales,  (grandfather 
of  the  present  King.)  From  the  impression  which 
history  has  given  of  his  character,  no  one,  I  believe, 
would  suspect  him  of  being  a  poet,  though  he  was 
known  as  the  patron  of  poets.  He  sometimes 
amused  himself  with  writing  French  and  English 
songs,  &c.,  in  imitation  of  the  Regent  Due  d' Or- 
leans. But,  assuredly,  it  was  not  in  imitation  of 
the  Regent  he  chose  his  own  wife  for  the  principal 
subject  of  his  ditties.  In  the  same  manner,  and  in 
the  same  worthy  spirit  of  imitation  of  the  same 
worthy  person,  he  tried  hard  to  be  a  libertine,  and 
laid  siege  to  the  virtue  of  sundry  maids  of  honor ; 
perferring  all  the  time,  in  his  inmost  soul,  his  own 
wife  to  the  handsomest  among  her  attendants.  His 
flirtations  with  Lady  Archibald  Hamilton  and  Miss 
Vane  had  not  half  the  grace  or  sincerity  of  some 
of  his  effusions  to  the  Princess,  whom  he  tenderly 
loved,  and  used  to  call,  with  a  sort  of  pastoral  gal- 
lantry, "  ma  Sylvie."  One  of  his  songs  has  been 
preserved  by  that  delicious  retailer  of  court-gossip, 
Horace  Walpole ;  and  I  copy  it  from  the  Appendix 
to  his  Memoirs,  without  agreeing  in  his  llippant 

censure. 

SONG. 

'Tis  not  the  languid  brightness  of  thine  eyes, 
That  swim  with  pleasure  and  delight, 

*  Lord  Lyttelton 's  Works,  4to. 


DR.    PAliNKLL.  367 

«k 

Nor  those  fair  heavenly  arches  which  ari*e 

O'er  each  of  them,  to  shade  their  light  :— 

'Tis  not  that  hair  which  plays  with  every  wind, 

And  loves  to  wanton  o'er  thy  face, 

Now  sti'aying  o'er  thy  forehead,  now  behind 

Retiring  with  insidious  grace:— • 

'Tis  not  the  living  colors  over  each, 

By  nature's  finest  pencil  wrought, 

To  shame  the  fresh-blown  rose  and  blooming  peach, 

And  mock  the  happiest  painter's  thought; 

But  'tis  that  gentle  mind,  that  ardent  love 

So  kindly  answering  my  desire, — 

That  grace  with  which  you  look,  and  speak,  and  move! 

That  thus  have  set  my  soul  on  fire. 

To  Dr.  Parnell's*  love  for  his  wife,  (Anne 
Minchin,)  we  owe  two  of  the  most  charming  songs 
in  our  language  ;  "  My  life  hath  been  so  wondrous 
free,"  and  that  most  beautiful  lyric,  "  When  your 
beauty  appears,"  which,  as  it  is  less  known,  I  give 
entire. 

When  your  beauty  appears 

In  its  graces  and  airs, 

All  bright  as  an  angel  new  dropt  from  the  skies, 

At  distance  I  gaze,  and  am  aw'd  by  my  fears, 

So  strangely  you  dazzle  my  eyes. 

But  when  without  art, 

Your  kind  thoughts  you  impart, 

When  your  love  runs  in  blushes  through  every  vein; 

When  it  darts  from  your  eyes,  when  it  pants  at  you* 

Then  I  know  that  you'^  woman  again.  [heart 

"  There's  a  passion  ana  pride 
In  our  sex,"  she  replied; 

*  Born  in  Dublin.  1679;  died  1717. 


368  CONJUGAL    POETRY. 

"  And  thus,  might  I  gratify  both,  I  would  do, — 
Still  an  angel  appear  to  each  lover  beside, 
But  still  be  a  woman  for  you !  " 

This  amiable  and  beloved  wife  died  after  a  union 
of  five  or  six  years,  and  left  her  husband  broken- 
hearted. Her  sweetness  and  loveliness,  and  the 
general  sympathy  caused  by  her  death,  drew  a 
touch  of  deep  feeling  from  the  pen  of  Swift,  who 
mentions  the  event  in  his  journal  to  Stella  :  "  every 
one,"  he  says,  u  grieved  for  her  husband,  they  were 
so  happy  together."  Poor  Parnell  did  not,  in  his 
bereavement,  try  Lord  Lyttelton's  specifics  :  he  did 
not  write  an  elegy,  nor  a  monody,  nor  did  he  marry 
again  ; — and,  unfortunately  for  himself,  he  could 
not  subdue  his  mind  to  religious  resignation.  His 
grief  and  his  nervous  irritability  proved  too  much 
for  his  reason ;  he  felt,  what  all  have  felt  under  the 
influence  of  piercing  anguish, — a  dread,  a  horror 
of  being  left  alone :  he  flew  to  society ;  when  that 
was  not  at  hand,  he  sought  relief  from  excess  which 
his  constitution  would  not  bear,  and  died,  unhappy 
man  !  in  the  prime  of  life  ;  "  a  martyr,"  as  Gold- 
mith  tells  us,  "  to  conjugal  fidelity." 


KLOPSTOCK  AND   META,  36» 

CHAPTER  XXX. 

CONJUGAL  POETRY,  CONTINUED, 

KLOPSTOOK    AND    META. 

THEN  is  there  not  the  German  Klopstock  and 
his  Meta, — his  lovely,  devoted,  angelic  Meta  ?  As 
the  subject  of  some  of  her  husband's  most  delight- 
ful and  popular  poems,  both  before  and  after  her 
marriage, — when  living,  she  formed  his  happiness 
on  earth  ;  and  when,  as  he  tenderly  imagined,  she 
watched  over  his  happiness  from  heaven — how  pass 
her  lightly  over  in  a  work  like  this  ?  Yet  how  do 
her  justice,  but  by  borrowing  her  own  sweet  words  ? 
or  referring  the  reader  at  once  to  the  memoirs 
and  fragments  of  her  letters,  which  never  saw  the 
light  till  sixty  years  after  her  death  ? — for  in  her 
there  was  no  vain-glory,  no  effort,  no  display.  A 
feeling  so  hallowed  lingers  round  the  memory  of 
this  angelic  creature,  that  it  is  rather  a  subject  to 
blend  with  our  most  sacred  and  most  serious 
thoughts, — to  muse  over  in  hours  when  the  heart 
communes  with  itself  and  is  still,  than  to  dress  out 
m  words,  and  mingle  with  the  ideas  of  earthly  fame 
and  happiness.  Other  loves  might  be  poetical,  but 
the  love  of  Klopstock  and  his  Meta  was  in  itself 
poetry.  They  were  mutually  possessed  with  the 
idea,  that  they  had  been  predestined  to  each  other 
24 


370  CONJUGAL   POETRY 

from  the  beginning  of  time,  and  that  their  meeting 
on  earth  was  merely  a  kind  of  incidental  preludo 
to  an  eternal  and  indivisible  union  in  heaven:  and 
shall  we  blame  their  fond  faith  ? 

It  is  a  gentle  and  affectionate  thought, 
That  in  immeasurable  heights  above  us, 
Even  at  our  birth,  the  wreath  of  love  was  woven 
With  sparkling  stars  for  flowers !  * 

All  the  sweetest  images  that  ever  were  grouped 
together  by  fancy,  dreaming  over  the  golden  age 
beauty,  innocence,  and  happiness ;  the  fervor  of 
youthful  love,  the  rapture  of  corresponding  aflec 
tion  ;  undoubting  faith  and  undissembled  truth  ; — 
these  were  so  bound  together,  so  exalted  by  the 
highest  and  holiest  associations,  so  confirmed  in  the 
serenity  of  conscious  virtue,  so  sanctified  by  re- 
ligious enthusiasm ;  and  in  the  midst  of  all  human 
blessedness,  so  wrapt  up  in  futurity, — that  the 
grave  was  not  the  close  but  the  completion  and  the 
consummation  of  their  happiness.  The  garland 
which  poesy  has  suspended  on  the  grave  of  Meta, 
was  wreathed  by  no  fabled  muse  ;  it  is  not  of  laurel, 
"  meed  of  conqueror  and  sage ; "  nor  of  roses  bloom- 
ing and  withering  among  their  thorns  ;  nor  of  myrtle 
shrinking  and  dying  away  before  the  blast :  but  of 
flowers  gathered  in  Paradise,  pure  and  bright,  and 
breathing  of  their  native  Eden :  which  never  caught 
one  blighting  stain  of  earth,  and  though  dew^d  with 
tears, — "  tears  such  as  angels  shed  !  " 

*  Coleridge's  Wallenstein. 


KLOPSTOCK    AND    MET  A.  371 


The  name  of  Klopstock  forms  an  epoch  in  th« 
nistory  of  poetry.  Goethe,  Schiller,  and  Wieland 
have  since  adorned  German  literature ;  but  Klop- 
stock was  the  first  to  impress  on  the  poetry  of  his 
country  the  stamp  of  nationality.  He  was  a  man 
of  great  and  original  genius, — gifted  with  an  ex- 
traordinary degree  of  sensibility  and  imagination  ; 
but  these  being  united  to  the  most  enthusiastic  re- 
ligious feeling,  elevated  and  never  misled  him.  His 
life  was  devoted  to  the  three  noblest  sentiments 
that  can  fill  and  animate  the  human  soul, — religion, 
patriotism,  and  love.  To  these,  from  early  youth, 
he  devoted  his  faculties  and  consecrated  his  talents. 
He  had,  even  in  his  boyhood,  resolved  to  write  a 
poem,  "  which  should  do  honor  to  God,  his  country, 
and  himself; "  and  he  produced  the  Messiah.  It 
would  be  difficult  to  describe  the  enthusiasm  thia 
work  excited  when  the  first  three  cantos  appeared 
in  1 746.  "  If  poetry  had  its  saints,"  says  Madame 
de  Stael,  "  then  Klopstock  would  be  at  the  head 
of  the  calendar ; "  and  she  adds,  with  a  burst  of 
her  own  eloquence,  "Ah,  qu'il  est  beau  le  talent;, 
quand  on  ne  1'a  jamais  profane  !  quand  il  n'a  servi 
qu'£  reveler  aux  homines,  sous  la  forme  attrayante 
des  beaux  arts,  les  sentiments  genereux,  et  les  es- 
pe" ranees  religieuses  obscurcies  au  fond  de  leur 
coeur ! " 

Such  was  Klopstock  as  a  poet.  As  a  man,  he  is 
described  as  one  of  the  most  amiable  and  affection- 
ate of  human  beings  ; — "  good  in  all  the  foldings  of 


872  CONJUGAL    POETRY. 

his  heart,"  as  his  sweet  wife  expressed  it;  free  from 
all  petty  vanity,  egotism,  and  worldly  ambition. 
He  was  pleasing,  though  not  handsome  in  person, 
with  fine  blue  animated  eyes.*  The  tone  of  his 
voice  was  at  first  low  and  hesitating,  but  soft  and 
persuasive ;  and  he  always  ended  by  captivating 
the  entire  attention  of  those  he  addressed.  He  was, 
to  his  latest  moments,  fond  of  the  society  of  women, 
and  an  object  of  their  peculiar  tenderness  and  ven- 
eration. 

Klopstock's  first  serious  attachment  was  to  his 
cousin,  the  beautiful  Fanny  Schmidt,  the  sister  of 
his  intimate  friend  and  brother  poet,  Schmidt.  He 
loved  her  constantly  for  several  years.  His  corre- 
spondence with  Bodmer  gives  us  an  interesting  pic- 
ture of  a  fine  mind  struggling  with  native  timidity, 
and  of  the  absolute  terror  with  which  this  gentle  and 
beautiful  girl  could  inspire  him,  till  his  heart  seemed 
to  wither  and  sicken  within  him  from  her  supposed 
indifference.  The  uncertainty  of  his  future  pros- 
pects, and  his  sublime  idea  of  the  merits  and  beau- 
ties of  her  he  loved,  kept  him  silent ;  nor  did  he 
ever  venture  to  declare  his  passion,  except  in  the 
beautiful  odes  and  songs  which  she  inspired.  Speak- 

*  Bodmer,  after  the  publication  of  the  Messiah,  invited  the 
author  to  his  house  in  Switzerland.  He  had  imaged  to  himself  a 
most  sublime  idea  of  the  man  who  could  write  such  a  poem,  and 
had  fancied  him  like  one  of  the  sages  and  prophets  of  the  Old 
Testament.  His  astonishment,  when  he  saw  a  slight  made, 
Rlegant  looking  young  man  leap  gayly  from  his  carriage,  with 
sparkling  eyes  and  smiling  countenance,  has  been  pleasantly 
described. 


KLOPSTOCK   AND    MET  A.  373 

ing  of  one  of  those  to  his  friend  Bodmer,  he  says, 
"  She  who  could  best  reward  it,  has  not  seen  it ;  so 
timid  does  her  apparent  insensibility  make  me." 

Whether  this  insensibility  was  more  than  appar- 
ent is  not  perfectly  clear :  the  memoirs  of  Klop* 
stock  are  not  quite  accurate  or  satisfactory  in  this 
part  of  his  history.  It  should  seem  from  the  pub- 
lished correspondence,  that  his  love  was  distinctly 
avowed,  though  he  never  had  courage  to  make  a 
direct  offer  qf  himself.  Fanny  Schmidt  appears  to 
have  been  a  superior  woman  in  point  of  mind,  and 
full  of  admiration  for  his  genius.  She  writes  to 
him  in  terms  of  friendship  and  kindness,  but  she 
leaves  him,  after  three  years'  attachment  on  his 
part,  still  in  doubt  whether  her  heart  remain  un- 
touched,— and  even  whether  she  had  a  heart  to  be 
touched.  He  intimates,  but  with  a  tender  and 
guarded  delicacy,  that  he  had  reason  to  com- 
plain of  her  coquetry  ;  *  and,  with  the  sensibility 
of  a  proud  but  wounded  heart,  he  was  anxious  to 
prove  to  himself  that  his  romantic  tenderness  had 
not  been  unworthily  bestowed.  "  All  the  peace  and 
consolation  of  my  after  life  depends  on  knowing 
whether  Fanny  really  has  a  heart  ? — a  heart  that 
could  have  sympathized  with  mine  ?  "  f  He  had 
commissioned  his  friend  Gleim  to  plead  his  cause, 
to  sound  her  heart  in  its  inmost  depths ;  and  in 
return,  received  the  intelligence  of  her  app-oach- 
tng  union  with  another.  "  When  (as  he  expresses 

»  Klopstock's  Letters,  p.  145.  t  Klopstock's  Letters 


574  CONJUGAL   POETRY. 

it)  not  a  hope  was  left  to  be  destroyed,"  he  became 
calm ;  but  he  suffered  at  first  acutely  ;  and  this  ill- 
fated  attachment  tinged  with  a  deep  gloom  nearly 
four  years  of  his  life.  While  in  suspense,  he  con- 
tinually repeats  his  conviction  that  he  can  never 
love  again.  "  Had  I  never  seen  her,  I  might  have 
attached  myself  to  another  object,  and  perhaps 
have  known  the  felicity  of  mutual  love  !  But  now 
it  is  impossible;  my  heart  is  steeled  to  every  im- 
pression." The  sentiment  was  naturaj  ;  but,  fortu- 
nately for  himself,  he  was  deceived. 

In  passing  through  Hamburg,  in  April,  1751, 
and  while  he  was  still  under  the  influence  of  this 
heart-wearing  attachment  to  Fanny,  he  was  intro- 
duced to  Meta  Moller.  The  impression  she  made 
on  him  is  thus  described,  in  a  letter  to  his  friend 
and  confidant,  Gleim. 

"  You  may  perhaps  have  heard  Gisecke  mention 
Margaret  Moller  of  Hamburg.  I  was  lately  in- 
troduced to  this  girl,  and  passed  in  her  society  most 
of  the  time  I  lately  spent  at  Hamburg.  I  found 
her,  in  every  sense  of  the  word,  so  lovely,  so  am- 
iable, so  full  of  attractions,  that  I  could  at  times 
scarcely  forbear  to  give  her  the  name  which  is  to 
me  the  dearest  in  existence.  I  was  often  with  her 
alone ;  and  in  those  moments  of  unreserved  inter- 
course, was  insensibly  led  to  communicate  rny  mel- 
ancholy story.  Could  you  have  seen  her  in  those 
moments,  my  Gleim  !  how  she  looked  and  listened, 
— and  how  often  she  interrupted  me,  and  how  ten- 
Jerly  she  wept !  and  if  you  knew  how  much  she  is 


KLOP8TOCK   AND    META  375 

my  friend  ;  and  yet  it  was  not  for  her  tliat  I  had  so 
long  suffered.  What  a  heart  must  she  possess  to 
be  thus  touched  for  a  stranger  !  At  this  thought  I 
am  almost  tempted  to  make  a  comparison  ;  but  then 
does  a  mist  gather  before  mine  eyes,  and  if  I  probe 
my  heart,  I  feel  that  I  am  more  unhappy  than 
ever."  Again  he  writes  from  Copenhagen,  "  I 
have  re-read  the  little  Moller's  letters  ;  sweet  artless 
creature  she  is !  She  has  already  written  to  me 
four  times,  and  writes  in  a  style  so  exquisitely  nat- 
ural !  Were  you  to  see  this  lovely  girl,  and  read 
her  letters,  you  would  scarce  conceive  it  possible 
that  she  should  be  mistress  of  the  French,  English, 
and  Italian  languages,  and  even  conversant  with 
Greek  and  Italian  literature."  But  it  were  wronging 
both,  to  give  the  history  and  result  of  this  attachment 
to  Meta  in  any  language  but  her  own.  Since  the 
publication  of  Richardson's  correspondence,  the 
letters  addressed  to  him,  in  English,  by  Meta  Klop- 
stock,  have  become  generally  known ;  but  this  ac- 
count would  be  incomplete  were  they  wholly  omit- 
ted ;  and  those  who  have  read  them  before,  will  not 
be  displeased  at  the  opportunity  of  re-perusing 
them :  her  sweet  lisping  English  is  worth  volumes 
of  eloquence. 

"  You  will  know  all  what  concerns  me.  Love, 
dear  Sir,  is  all  what  me  concerns,  and  love  shall  be 
all  what  I  will  tell  you  in  this  letter.  In  one  happy 
night  I  read  my  husband's  poem — the  Messiah.  I 
was  extremely  touched  with  it.  The  next  day  I 
isked  one  of  his  friends  who  was  the  author  of  this 


S76  CONJUGAL   POETRY. 

poein  ?  and  this  was  the*  first  time  I  heard  Klop- 
stock's  name.  I  believe  I  fell  immediately  in  love 
with  him  ;  at  the  least,  my  thoughts  were  ever  with 
him  filled,  especially  because  his  friend  told  me 
very  much  of  his  character.  But  I  had  no  hopes 
ever  to  see  him,  when  quite  unexpectedly  I  heard 
that  he  should  pass  through  Hamburg.  I  wrote 
immediately  to  the  same  friend,  for  procuring  by 
his  means  that  I  might  see  the  author  of  the  Mes- 
siah, when  in  Hamburg.  He  told  him  that  a  cer- 
tain girl  in  Hamburg  wished  to  see  him,  and,  for 
all  recommendation,  showed  him  some  letters  in 
which  I  made  bold  to  criticize  Klopstock's  verses. 
Klopstock  came,  and  came  to  me.  I  must  confess, 
that,  though  greatly  prepossessed  of  his  qualities,  I 
never  thought  him  the  amiable  youth  tnat  I  found 
him.  This  made  its  effect.  After  having  seen  him 
two  hours,  I  was  obliged  to  pass  the  evening  in 
company,  which  never  had  been  so  wearisome  to 
me.  I  could  not  speak  ;  I  could  not  play  ;  I  thought 
I  saw  nothing  but  Klopstock.  I  saw  him  the  next 
day,  and  the  following,  and  we  were  very  seriously 
friends ;  on  the  fourth  day  he  departed.  It  was  a 
strong  hour,  the  hour  of  his  departure.  He  wrote 
soon  after,  and  from  that  time  our  correspondence 
began  to  be  a  very  diligent  one.  I  sincerely  be- 
lieved my  love  to  be  friendship.  I  spoke  with  my 
friends  of  nothing  but  Klopstock,  and  showed  his 
letters.  They  rallied  me,  and  said  I  was  in  love, 
rallied  them  again,  and  said  they  must  have  a 
very  friendshipless  heart,  if  they  had  no  idea  <rf 


KLOPSTOCK   AND    META.  377 

friendship  to  a  man  as  well  as  a  woman.  Thus  il 
continued  eight  months,  in  which  time  in}'  friends 
found  as  much  love  in  Klopstock's  letters  as  in  me. 
I  perceived  it  likewise,  but  I  would  not  believe  it 
At  the  last,  Klopstock  said  plainly  that  he  loved ; 
and  I  startled  as  for  a  wrong  thing.  I  answered 
that  it  was  no  love,  but  friendship,  as  it  was  what  1 
felt  for  him ;  we  had  not  seen  one  another  enough 
to  love ;  as  if  love  must  have  more  time  than 
friendship  !  This  was  sincerely  my  meaning ;  and 
I  had  this  meaning  till  Klopstock  came  again  to 
Hamburg.  This  he  did  a  year  after  we  had 
seen  one  another  the  first  time.  We  saw,  we 
were  friends ;  we  loved,  and  we  believed  that  we 
loved  ;  and  a  short  time  after  I  could  even  tell 
Klopstock  that  I  loved.  But  we  were  obliged  to 
part  again,  and  wait  two  years  for  our  wedding. 
My  mother  would  not  let  me  marry  a  stranger.  I 
could  marry  without  her  consentment,  as,  by  the 
death  of  my  father,  my  fortune  depended  not  on 
her ;  but  this  was  an  horrible  idea  for  me ;  and 
thank  Heaven  that  I  have  prevailed  by  prayers  ! 
At  this  time,  knowing  Klopstock,  she  loves  him  as 
her  son,  and  thanks  God  that  she  has  not  persisted. 
We  married,  and  I  am  the  happiest  wife  in  the 
world.  In  some  few  months  it  will  be  four  years 
that  I  am  so  happy ;  and  still  I  dote  upon  Klop- 
stock as 'if  he  was  my  bridegroom.  If  you  knew 
my  husband,  you  would  not  wonder.  If  you  kne-w 
his  poem,  I  could  describe  him  very  briefly,  in  say- 
ing he  is  in  all  respects  what  he  is  as  a  poet.  This 


578  CONJUGAL    POETRY. 

I  can  say  with  all  wifely  modesty  ;  I  am  all  raptures 
when  I  do  it  And  as  happy  as  I  am  in  love,  so 
happy  am  I  in  friendship  ; — in  my  mother,  two 
elder  sisters,  and  fivs  other  women.  How  rich  I 
am !  Sir,  you  have  willed  that  I  should  speak  of 
myself,  but  I  fear  that  I  have  done  it  too  much, 
Yet  you  see  how  it  interests  me." 

I  have  somewhere  seen  or  heard  it  observed, 
that  there  is  nothing  in  the  Romeo  and  Juliet  more 
finely  imagined  or  more  true  to  nature  than 
Romeo's  previous  love  for  another.  It  is  while 
writhing  under  the  coldness  and  scorn  of  his  proud 
inaccessible  Rosaline,  she  who  had  "  forsworn  to 
love,"  that  he  meets  the  soft  glances  of  Juliet, 
whose  eyes  "  do  comfort,  and  not  burn  ; "  and  he 
takes  refuge  in  her  bosom,  for  she 

Doth  grace  for  grace,  and  love  for  love  allow ; 
The  other  did  not  so. 

With  such  a  grateful  and  gratified  feeling  musl 
Klopstock  have  gathered  to  his  arms  the  devoted 
Meta,  who  came,  with  healing  on  her  lips,  to  suck 
forth  the  venom  of  a  recent  wound.  He  has  him- 
self beautifully  expressed  this  in  one  of  the  poems 
addressed  to  her,  and  which  he  has  entitled  the 
Recantation.  He  describes  the  anguish  he  had 
suffered  from  an  unrequited  affection,  and  the  day- 
spring  of  renovated  hope  and  rapture  which  now 
dawned  in  his  heart ; 

At  length,  beyond  my  hope  the  night  retires, 
'Tis  past,  and  all  my  long  lost  joys  awake, 


KLOPSTOCK    AND    META.  379 

Smiling  tney  wake,  my  long  forgotten  joys, 
0,  how  I  wonder  at  my  altered  fate !  &c. 

and  exults  in  the  charms  and  tenderness  of  her 
who  had  wiped  away  his  tears,  and  whom  he  had 
first  "  taught  to  love." 

I  taught  thee  first  to  love,  and  seeking  thee, 
I  ^earned  what  true  love  was ;  it  raised  my  heart 
From  earth  to  heaven,  arid  now,  through  Eden's  groves,, 
With  thee  it  leads  me  on  in  endless  joy. 

This  little  poem  has  been  translated  by  Elizabeth 
Smith,  with  one  or  two  of  the  graceful  little  songs 
addressed  to  Meta,  under  the  name  of  Cidli.  This 
is  the  appellation  given  to  Jarius's  daughter  in  the 
"  Messiah ; "  and  Meta,  who  was  fond  of  the  char- 
acter, probably  chose  it  for  herself.  The  first 
cantos  of  this  poem  had  been  published  long 
before  his  marriage,  and  it  was  continued  after  his 
union  with  Meta,  and  at  her  side.  Nothing  can 
be  more  charming  than  the  picture  of  domestic 
affection  and  happiness  contained  in  the  following 
passage  of  one  of  her  letters  to  Richardson  : — 
apparently,  she  had  improved  in  English,  since  the 
last  was  written. — "  It  will  be  a  delightful  occupa- 
tion for  me  to  make  you  more  acquainted  with  my 
husband's  poem.  Nobody  can  do  it  better  than  1^ 
being  the  person  who  knows  the  most  of  that  which 
is  not  published ;  being  always  present  at  the  birth 
of  the  young  verses,  which  begin  by  fragments 
here  and  there,  of  a  subject  of  which  his  soul  in 


880  CONJUGAL   POETRY 

just  theu  filled.  He  has  many  great  fragments  ot 
the  whole  work  ready.  You  may  think  that  per- 
sons who  love  as  we  do,  have  no  need  of  two 
chambers  ;  we  are  always  in  the  same :  1,  wfah  my 
little  work,-:— still — still — only  regarding  sometimes 
my  husband's  sweet  face,  which  is  so  venerable  at 
that  time,  with  tears  of  devotion,  and  all  the  sub- 
limity of  the  subject.  My  husband  reading  me 
his  young  verses,  and  suffering  my  criticisms." 

And  for  the  task  of  criticism,  Meta  was  pe- 
culiarly fitted,  not  less  by  her  fine  cultivated  mind 
and  feminine  delicacy  of  taste,  than  by  her  affec- 
tionate enthusiasm  for  her  husband's  glory.  "  How 
much,"  says  Klopstock,  writing  after  her  death, 
"  how  much  do  I  lose  in  her  even  in  this  respect! 
How  perfect  was  her  taste,  how  exquisitely  fine 
her  feelings !  she  observed  every  thing,  even  to 
the  slightest  turn  of  the  thought.  I  had  only  to 
look  at  her,  and  could  see  in  her  face  when  a 
syllable  pleased  or  displeased  her :  and  when  J 
led  her  to  explain  the  reason  of  her  remarks,  no 
demonstration  could  be  more  true,  more  accurate, 
or  more  appropriate  to  the  subject.  But  in  general 
this  gave  us  very  little  trouble,  for  we  understood 
each  other  when  we  had  scarcely  begun  to  explain 
our  ideas." 

And  that  not  a  stain  of  the  selfish  or  earthly 
should  rest  on  the  bright  purity  of  her  mind  and 
heart,  it  must  be  remarked  that  we  cannot  trace  in 
all  her  letters,  whether  before  or  after  marriage, 
the  slightest  feeling  of  jealousjt-or  doubt,  though 


KLOPSTOCK   AND    META.  381 

the  woman  lived  whom  Klopstock  had  once  exalted 
into  a  divinity,  and  though  she  loved  her  husband 
with  thf3  most  impassioned  enthusiasm.  She  ex- 
presses frankly  her  admiration  of  the  odes  and 
songs  addressed  to  Fanny :  and  her  only  sentiment 
seems  to  be  a  mixture  of  grief  and  astonishment, 
that  any  woman  could  be  so  insensible  as  not  to 
love  Klopstock,  or  so  cruel  as  to  give  him  pain. 

Though  in  her  letters  to  Richardson  she  speaks 
with  rapture  of  her  hopes  of  becoming  a  mother, 
as  all  that  was  wanting  to  complete  her  happiness,  * 
she  had  long  prepared  herself  for  a  fatal  determina- 
tion to  those  hopes.  Her  constant  presentiment  of 
approaching  death,  she  concealed,  in  tenderness  to 
her  husband.  When  we  consider  the  fond  and 
entire  confidence  which  existed  between  them, 
this  must  have  cost  no  small  effort  of  fortitude : 
<;  She  was  formed,"  said  Klopstock,  "  to  say,  like 
Arria,  'My  Pastus,'  'tis  not  painful :"  but  her  hus- 
band pressed  her  not  to  allow  any  secret  feeling  to 
prey  on  her  mind:  and  then,  with  gratitude  for 
his  "  permission  to  speak,"  she  avowed  her  ap- 
prehensions, and  at  the  same  time  her  strong  and 

animated  trust  in  religion.     This  whole  letter,  to 

• 

*  "  I  not  being  able  to  travel  yet,  my  husband  has  been  obliged 
to  make  a  voyage  to  Copenhagen.  He  is  yet  absent ;  a  cloud 
DTer  my  happiness  !  He  -will  soon  return ;  but  what  does  that 
help  ?  he  is  yet  equally  absent.  We  write  to  each  'other  every 
post;  but  what  are  letters  to  presence?  But  I  will  speak  no 
more  of  this  little  cloud,  I  will  only  tell  my  happiness.  But.  1 
cannot  tell  you  how  I  rejoice  ! — A  son  of  -my  dear  Klopstock 's 
O,  when  shall  I  have  him?  "—Memoirs,  p.  99. 


382  CONJUGAL    POETRY. 

which  I  must  refer  the  reader,  (for  any  attempt ) 
should  make  to  copy  it  entire,  would  certainly  b«i 
unintelligible,)  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  pieces 
of  tender  eloquence  that  ever  fell  from  a  woman's 
pen  ;  and  that  is  saying  much.  She  is  writing  to 
her  husband  during  a  short  absence.  "  I  well 
know,"  she  says,  "  that  all  hours  are  not  alike,  and 
particularly  the  last,  since  death  in  my  situation, 
must  be  far  from  an  easy  death  ;  but  let  the  last 
hour  make  no  impression  on  you.  You  know  too 
well  how  much  the  body  then  presses  down  the 
soul.  Let  God  give  what  he  will,  I  shall  still  be 
happy.  A  longer  life  with  you,  or  eternal  life  with 
Him  !  But  can  you  as  easily  part  from  me  as  I  from 
you  ?  You  are  to  remain  in  this  world,  in  a  world 
without  me  !  You  know  I  have  always  wished  to  be 
the  survivor,  because  I  well  know  it  is  the  hardest 
to  endure;  but  perhaps  it  is  the  will  of  God  that 
you  should  be  left;  and  perhaps  you  have  most 
strength." 

This  last  letter  is  dated  September  10th,  1754. 
Her  confinement  took  place  in  November  follow- 
ing; and  after  the  most  cruel  and  piotracted 
sufferings,  it  became  too  certain  that  both  must 
perish, — mother  and  child. 

Klopstock  stood  beside  her,  and  endeavored,  as 
well  as  the  agony  of  his  feelings  would  permit,  to 
pray  with  »her  and  to  support  her.  He  praised  her 
fortitude  : — "  You  have  endured  like  an  angel  ! 
God  has  been  with  you !  he  will  be  with  you  ! 
were  I  so  wretched  as  not  to  be  a  Christian,  I 


KLOPSTOCK   AND    META.  388 

should  now  become  one."  He  added  with  strong 
emotion,  "  Be  my  guardian  angel,  if  God  permit !  " 
She  replied  tenderly,  "  Y"ou  have  ever  been  mine  !  * 
He  repeated  his  request  more  fervently :  she  an- 
swered with  a  look  of  undying  love,  "  Who  would 
not  be  so !  ",  He  hastened  from  the  room,  unable 
to  endure  more.  After  he  was  gone,  her  sister,* 
who  attended  her  through  her  sufferings,  said  to 
her,  "  God  will  help  you  ! " — "  Yes,  to  heaven  !  " 
replied  the  saint.  After  a  faint  struggle,  she  added, 
"  It  is  over !  "  her  head  sunk  on  the  pillow,  and 
while  her  eyes,  until  glazed  by  death,  were  fixed 
tenderly  on  her  sister, — thus  with  the  faith  of  a 
Christian,  and  the  courage  of  a  martyr,  she  resigned 
into  the  hands  of  her  Creator,  a  life  which  had  been 
so  blameless  and  so  blessed,  so  intimate  with  love 
and  joy,  that  only  such  a  death  could  crown  it,  by 
proving  what  an  angel  a  woman  can  be,  in  doing, 
feeling,  and  suffering.f 

#  *  *  *  # 

It  was  by  many  expected  that  Klopstock  would 
have  made  the  loss  of  his  Meta  the  subject  of  a 
poem ;  but  he  early  declared  his  resolution  not  to 
do  this,  nor  to  add  to  the  collection  of  odes  and 
songs  formerly  addressed  to  her.  He  "gives  his 

#  Elizabeth  Schmidt,  married  to  the  brother  of  Fanny  Schmidt 

t  Meta  was  buried  with  her  infant  in  her  arms,  at  Ottenson, 

near  Alfcona.    She  had  expressed  a  wish  to  have  two  passages 

from  the  Messiah,  descriptive  of  the  resurrection,  inscribed  OB 

b«r  coffin,  but  only  one  was  engraved — 

"  Seed  sown  by  God  to  ripen  for  the  harvest." 

See  Memoirs,  p  197 


384  CONJUGAL    POETRY. 

reasons  for  this  silence.  "  I  think  that  before  tta 
public  a  man  should  speak  of  his  wife  with  the 
same  modesty  as  of  himself;  and  this  principle 
would  destroy  the  enthusiasm  required  in  poetry. 
The  reader  too,  not  without  reason,  would  feel 
himself  justified  in  refusing  implicit  credit  to  the 
fond  eulogium  written  on  one  beloved  ;  and  my 
love  for  her  who  made  me  the  happiest  among 
men,  is  too  sincere  to  let  me  allow  my  readers  to 
call  it  in  question."  Yet  in  a  little  poem  *  addressed 
afterwards  to  his  friend  Schmidt,  and  probably  not 
intended  for  publication,  he  alludes  to  his  loss,  in 
a  tone  of  deep  feeling,  and  complains  of  the  rec- 
ollections which  distract  his  sleepless  nights. 

Again  the  form  of  my  lost  wife  I  see, 
She  lies  before  me,  and  she  dies  again ; 
Again  she  smiles  on  me,  again  she  dies, 
Her  eyes  now  close,  and  comfort  me  no  more. 

He  indulged  the  fond  thought  that  she  hovered,  a  \ 
guardian  spirit,  near  him  still, — 

0,  if  thou  love  me  yet,  by  heavenly  laws 
Condemn  me  not !  I  am  a  man,  and  mourn, — 
Support  me,  though  unseen ! 

And  he  foretells  that,  even  in  distant  ages, — "  in 
times  perhaps  more  virtuous  than  ours,"  his  grief 
would  be  remembered,  and  the  name  of  his  Meta 

*  Translated  by  Elizabeth  Smith,  of  whom  it  has  been  truly 
said,  that  she  resembled  Meta,  and  to  whom  we  are  indebted  for 
her  first  introduction  to  English  readers. 


KLOPSTOCK    AND    MKTA  385 

revered.  And  shall  it  not  be  so? — it  must — it 
will : — as  long  as  truth,  virtue,  tenderness,  dvveU 
in  woman's  breast — so  long  shall  Meta  be  dear  to 
her  sex;  for  she  has  honored  us  among  men  on 
eartlt,  and  among  saints  in  heaven  ! 

And  now,  how  shall  I  fill  up  this  sketch  V  Let 
us  pause  for  a  moment,  and  suppose  the  fate  of 
Mcta  and  Klopstock  reversed,  and  that  she  had 
been  called,  according  to  her  own  tender  and  un- 
selfish wish,  to  be  the  survivor.  Under  such  a 
terrible  dispensation,  her  angelic  meekness  and 
sublime  faith  would  at  first  have  supported  her ; 
she  would  have  rejoiced  in  the  certainty  of  her 
husband's  blessedness,  and  in  the  yearning  of  her 
heart  she  would  jiave  tried  to  fancy  him  ever 
present  with  her  in  spirit ;  she  would  have  collected 
together  his  works,  and  have  occupied  herself  in 
transmitting  his  glory  as  a  poet,  without  a  blemish, 
to  the  admiration  of  posterity ;  she  would  have 
gone  about  all  her  feminine  duties  with  a  quiet 
patience — for  it  would  have  been  his  will ;  and 
would  have  smiled — and  her  smile  would  have 
been  like  the  moonlight  on  a  winter  lake :  and 
with  all  her  thoughts  loosened  from  the  earth,  to  her 
there  would  never  more  have  been  good  or  evil, 
or  grief,  or  fear,  or  joy :  space  and  time  would 
only  have  existed  to  her,  as  they  separated  her 
from  him.  Thus  she  would  have  lived  on  dyingly 
from  day  to  day,  and  then  have  perished,  less 
through  regret,  than  through  the  intense  longing 
to  realize  the  vision  of  her  heart,  and  rejom  him 
26 


886  CONJUGAL    "POETRY. 

without  whom  all  concerns  of  life  were  vain,  and 
less  than  nothing.  And  this,  I  am  well  convinced, 
— as  far  as  one  human  being  may  dare  to  reason 
on  the  probable  result  of  certain  feelings  and  iiri 
pulses  in  another, — would  have  been  the  lot  of  Meta 
if  left  on  the  earth  alone  and  desolate. 

If  Klopstock  acted  differently,  let  him  not  be 
too  severely  arraigned ;  he  was  but  a  man,  and 
differently  constituted.  With  great  sensibility,  he 
possessed,  by  nature,  an  elasticity  of  spirit  which 
could  rebound,  as  it  were,  from  the  very  depths  of 
grief:  his  sorrow,  intense  at  first,  found  many  out- 
ward resources  : — he  could  speak,  he  could  write  . 
his  vivacity  of  imagination  pictured  to  him  Met* 
happy ;  and  his  habitual  religious  feeling  made 
him  acquiesce  in  his  own  privation  ;  he  could  please 
himself  with  visiting  her  grave,  and  every  year  he 
planted  it  with  white  lilies,  "  because  the  lily  was 
the  most  exalted  among  flowers,  and  she  was  the 
most  exalted  among  women."*  He  had  many 
friends,  to  whom  the  confiding  simplicity  of  his 
character  had  endeared  him :  all  his  life  he  seems 
to  have  clung  to  friendship  as  a  child  clings  to  the 
breast  of  the  mother ;  he  was  accustomed  to  seek 
and  find  relief  in  sympathy,— and  sympathy, 
deeply  felt  and  strongly  expressed,  was  all  around 
him.  With  his  high  intellect  and  profound  feeling, 
there  was  ever  a  childlike  buoyancy  in  the  mind 
of  Klopstock,  which  gained  him  the  title  of  der 
ewigen  jungling — "The  ever  young,  or  the  youth 
*  Memoirs. 


KLOPSTOCK   AND    META.  387 

."*  His  mind  never  fell  into  "  the  sear  and 
yellow  leaf, '  it  was  a  perpetual  spring :  the  flowers 
grew  and  withered,  and  blossomed  again, — a  never- 
failing  succession  of  fragrance  and  beauty :  when 
the  rose  wounded  him,  he  gathered  the  lily ;  when 
the  lily  died  on  his  bosom,  he  cherished  the  myrtle. 
And  he  was  most  happy  in  such  a  character,  fcr  in 
him  it  was  allied  to  the  highest  virtue  and  genius, 
and  equally  remote  from  weakness  and  selfishness. 
About  four  years  after  the  death  of  Meta,  he 
became  extremely  attached  to  a  young  girl  of 
Blackenburg,  whose  name  was  Dona  ;  she  loved 
and  admired  him  in  return,  but  naturally  felt  some 
distrust  in  the  warmth  of  his  attachment ;  and  he 
addressed  to  her  a  little  poem,  in  which,  tenderly 
alluding  to  Meta,  he  assures  Dona  that  she  is  not 
less  dear  to  him  or  less  necessary  to  his  happi- 
ness f — 

And  such  is  man's  fidelity! 

This  intended  marriage  never  took  place. 

Twenty-five  years  afterwards,  when  Klopstock 
was  in  his  sixtieth  year,  he  married  Johanna  von 
Wentham,  a  near  relation  of  his  Meta  ;  an  excel- 
lent and  amiable  woman,  whose  affectionate  atten- 
tion cheered  the  remaining  years  of  his  life. 

*  Klopstock  says  of  himself,  "  it  is  not  my  nature  to  be  happy 
or  miserable  by  halves;  having  once  discarded  melancholy,  I  am 
ready  to  welcome  happiness." — Klopstock  and  his  Friends,  p  1M 
t  Du  zweifelst  dass  ich  dich  wie  Meta  liebe? 
Wie  Meta  lieb'  Ich  Done  dich  ! 
Dies,  saget  dir  mein  hertz  liebe  vol 
Mem  ganzes  hertz  !  &c 


588  CONJUGAL    POETRY. 

Klopstock  died  at  Hamburg  in  1813,  at  the  age 
of  eighty :  his  remains  were  attended  to  the  grave 
by  all  the  magistrates,  the  diplomatic  corps,  the 
clergy,  foreign  generals,  and  a  concourse  of  about 
fifty  thousand  persons.  His  sacred  poems  were 
placed  on  his  coffin,  and  in  the  intervals  of  the 
chanting,  the  ministering  clergyman  took  up  the 
book,  and  read  aloud  the  fine  passage  in  the  Mes- 
siah, describing  the  death  of  the  righteous. — Happy 
are  they,  who  have  so  consecrated  their  genius  to 
the  honor  of  Him  who  bestowed  it,  that  the  produc- 
tions of  their  early  youth  may  be  placed  without 
profanation  on  their  tomb  ! 

He  was  buried  under  a  lime-tree  in  the  church* 
yard  of  Ottensen,  by  the  side  of  his  Mcta  and  her 
infant, — 

Seed  sown  by  God,  to  ripen  for  the  harvest. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

CONJUGAL   POETRY,   CONTINUED. 
BONNIB  JEAN. 

It  was  as  Burns's  wife  as  well  as  his  early  love, 
that  Bonnie  Jean  lives  immortalized  in  her  poet* 
songs,  and  that  her  name  is  destined  to  float  in 
music  from  pole  to  pole.  When  they  first  met. 


BONNIE  JEAN  389 

Burns  was  about  six-and-twenty,  and  Jean  Armour 

14  but  a  young  thing," 

Wi'  tempting  lips  and  roguish  een, 

the  pride,  the  beauty,  and  the  favorite  toast  of  the 
village  of  Mauchline,  where  her  father  lived.  To 
an  early  period  of  their  attachment,  or  to  the  fond 
recollection  of  it  in  after  times,  we  owe  some  of 
Burns's  most  beautiful  and  impassioned  songs, — as 

Come,  let  me  take  thee  to  tins  breast, 
And  pledge  we  ne'er  shall  sunder! 

And  I'll  spurn  as  vilest  dust, 
The  world's  wealth  and  grandeur,  &c. ; 

"  O  poortith  cold  and  restless  love  ; "  "  The  kind 
love  that's  in  her  e'e ; "  "  Lewis,  what  reck  I  by 
thee ; "  and  many  others.  I  conjecture,  from  a 
passage  in  one  of  Burns's  letters,  that  Bonnie  Jean 
also  furnished  the  heroine  and  the  subject  of  that 
admirable  song,  "  O  whistle,  and  I'll  come  to  thee, 
my  lad,"  so  full  of  buoyant  spirits  and  artless  affec- 
tion ;  it  appears  that  she  wished  to  have  her  name 
introduced  into  it,  and  that  he  afterwards  altered 
the  fourth  line  of  the  first  verse  to  please  her : — 
thus, 

Thy  Jeanie  will  venture  w>'  ye,  my  lad; 

but  this  amendment  has  been  rejected  by  singers 
and  editors,  as  injuring  the  musical  accentuation  ; 
the  anecdote,  however,  and  the  introduction  of 
the  name,  give  an  additional  interest  and  a  truth 
V>  the  sentiment,  for  which  I  could  be  content  to 


590  CONJUGAL   POETRY. 

sacrifice  the  beauty  of  a  single  line,  and  methinka 
Jeanie  had  a  right  to  dictate  in  this  instance.* 
With  regard  to  her  personal  attractions,  Jean  was 
at  this  time  a  blooming  girl,  animated  with  health, 
affection,  and  gayety  ;  the  perfect  symmetry  of  her 
slender  figure;  her  light  step  in  the  dance;  the 
"  waist  sae  jimp,"  "  the  foot  sae  sma',"  were  no 
fancied  beauties ;  she  had  a  delightful  voice,  and 
sung  with  much  taste  and  enthusiasm  the  ballads 
of  her  native  country ;  among  which  we  may 
imagine  that  the  songs  of  her  lover  were  not  for- 
gotten. The  consequences,  however,  of  all  this 
dancing,  singing,  and  loving  were  not  quite  so 
poetical  as  they  were  embarrassing. 

0  wha  could  prudence  think  upon, 

And  sic  a  lassie  by  him  ? 
0  wha  could  prudence  think  upon, 

And  sae  in  love  as  I  am  ? 

Burns  had  long  been  distinguished  in  his  rustic 
neighborhood  for  his  talents,  for  his  social  qualities 
and  his  conquests  among  the  maidens  of  his  own 
rank.  His  personal  appearance  is  thus  described 
from  memory  by  Sir  Walter  Scott :  "  His  form 
was  strong  and  robust,  his  manner  rustic,  not 
clownish  ;  with  a  sort  of  dignified  simplicity,  which 
received  part  of  its  effect,  perhaps,  from  one's 
knowledge  of  his  extraordinary  talents ;  *  *  *  his 

*  "A  dame  whom  the  graces  have  attired  in  witchcraft,  and 
whom  the  loves  have  armed  with  lightning— a  fair  one— herself 
the  heroine  of  the  song,  insists  on  the  amendment — and  dispute 
her  command*  if  you  dare !" — Burns's  Letters. 


BONNIE   JEAN.  391 

eye  alone,  i.  think,  indicated  the  poetical  character 
and  temperament ;  it  was  large,  and  of  a  dark  cast, 
which  glowed,  (I  say  literally,  glowed,}  when  he 
spoke  with  feeling  and  interest ;  " — "  his  address  to 
females  was  extremely  deferential,  and  always 
with  a  turn  either  to  the  pathetic  or  humorous, 
which  engaged  their  attention  particularly.  I  have, 
heard  the  late  Duchess  of  Gordon  remark  this :  '* 
and  Allan  Cunningham,  speaking  also  from  recol- 
lection, says,  "  he  had  a  very  manly  countenance, 
and  a  very  dark  complexion  ;  his  habitual  expres- 
sion was  intensely  melancholy,  but  at  the  presence 
of  those  he  loved  or  esteemed,  his  whole  face 
beamed  with  affection  and  genius  ;  "  f — u  his  voice 
was  very  musical ;  and  he  excelled  in  dancing, 
and  all  athletic  sports  which  required  strength 
and  agility." 

Is  it  surprising  that  powers  of  fascination,  which 
carried  a  Duchess  "  off  her  feet,"  should  conquer 
the  heart  of  a  country  lass  of  low  degree  ?  Bonnie 
Jean  was  too  soft-hearted,  or  her  lover  too  irresist- 
ible ;  and  though  Burns  stepped  forward  to  repair 
their  transgression  by  a  written  acknowledgment 
of  marriage,  which,  in  Scotland,  is  sufficient  to  con- 
stitute a  legal  union,  still  his  circumstances,  and 
his  character  as  a  "  wild  lad,"  were  such,  that 
nothing  could  appease  her  father's  indignation ; 
and  poor  Jean,  when  humbled  and  weakened  by 
the  consequences  of  her  fault  and  her  sense  of 

*  Lockhart's  Life  of  Burns,  p.  If3. 
t  Life  of  Burns,  p.  268. 


39 1'  CONJUGAL    POETRY. 

shame,  was  prevailed  on  to  destroy  the  document 
of  her  lover's  fidelity  to  his  vows,  and  to  reject 
him. 

Burns  was  nearly  heart-broken  by  this  derelic- 
tion, and  between  grief  and  rage  was  driven  to  the 
verge  of  insanity.  His  first  thought  was  to  fly  the 
"ountry ;  the  only  alteraative  which  presented 
itself,  "  was  America  or  a  jail ; "  and  such  were 
the  circumstances  under  which  he  wrote  his  "  La- 
ment," which,  though  not  composed  in  his  native 
dialect,  is  poured  forth  with  all  that  energy  and 
pathos  which  only  truth  could  impart. 

No  idly  feigned  poetic  pains, 

My  sad,  love-lorn  lamenting  claim ; 
No  shepherd's  pipe — Arcadian  strains, 

No  fabled  tortures,  quaint  and  tame: 
The  plighted  faith — the  mutual  flame — 

The  oft-attested  powers  above — 
The  promised  father's  tender  name — 

These  were  the  pledges  of  my  love !  &c. 

This  was  about  1786  :  two  years  afterwards,  whep 
the  publication  of  his  poems  had  given  him  name 
and  fame,  Burns  revisited  the  scenes  which  his 
Jcanie  had  endeared  to  him  :  thus  he  sings  exult- 

ingly>— 

I'll  aye  ca'  in  by  yon  town 
And  by  yon  garden-green,  again: 

I'll  aye  ca'  in  by  yon  town, 
And  see  my  Bonnie  Jean  again ! 

They  met  in  secret ;  a  reconciliation  took  place  * 
and  tho  consequences  were,  that  Bonnie  Jean, 


BONNIE   JEAN.  393 

being  again  exposed  to  the  indignation  of  hei 
Tamil) ,  was  literally  turned  out  of  her  father's 
house.  When  the  news  reached  Burns  he  was 
lying  ill ;  he  was  lauie  from  the  consequences  of 
an  accident, — the  moment  he  could  stir,  he  flew  to 
her,  went  through  the  ceremony  of  marriage  with 
her  in  presence  of  competent  witnesses,  and  a  few 
months  afterwards  he  brought  her  to  his  new  farm 
at  Elliesland,  established  her  under  his  roof  as  his 
wife,  and  the  honored  mother  of  his  children. 

It  was  during  this  second-hand  honeymoon,  hap- 
pier and  more  endeared  than  many  have  proved 
in  their  first  gloss,  that  Burns  wrote  several  of  the 
sweetest  effusions  ever  inspired  by  his  Jean  ;  even 
in  the  days  of  their  early  wooing,  and  when  their 
intercourse  had  all  the  difficulty,  all  the  romance, 
all  the  mystery,  a  poetical  lover  could  desire. 
Thus  practically  controverting  his  own  opinion, 
"  that  conjugal  love  does  not  make  such  a  figure 
in  poesy  as  that  other  love,"  &c. — for  instance,  we 
have  that  most  beautiful  song,  composed  when  he 
left  his  Jean  at  Ayr,  (in  the  west  of  Scotland,)  and 
had  gone  to  prepare  for  her  at  Elliesland,  near 
Dumfries.* 

Of  a'  the  airts  the  win'  can  blaw,  I  dearly  love  the  west, 

For  there  the  bonnie  lassie  lives,  the  lass  that  I  love  best ! 

There  wild  woods  grow  and  rivers  row,  and  mony  a  hill 

between ; 

But  day  and  night,  my  fancy  s  flight  is  ever  wi'  mt 
Jean! 

»  Li  feof  Burns,  p.  247. 


394  CONJUGAL    POETRY. 

I  see  her  in  the  dewy  flowers,  I  see  her  sweet  and  fair- 

I  hear  her  in  the  tuneful  birds,  wi'  music  charm  the  air. 
There's  not  a  bonnie  flower  that  springs  by  fountain, 

shaw,  or  green, 

There's  not  a  bonnie  bird  that  sings,  but  minds  me  o' 
my  Jean. 

0  blaw  ye  westlin  winds,  blaw  soft  among  the  leafy  treos ; 
VVi'  gentle  gale,  fra'  muir  and  dale,  bring  hame  the 

laden  bees ! 
And  bring  the  lassie  back  to  me,  that's  aye  sae  sweet 

and  clean, 
Ae  blink  o'  her  wad  banish  care,  sae  lovely  is  my  Jean ! 

What  sighs  and  vows,  amang  the    knowes,  hae    past 

between  us  twa ! 
How  fain  to  meet!  how  wae  to  part! — that  day  she 

gaed  awa ! 
The  powers  above  can  only  ken,  to  whom  the  heart  is 

seen, 

That  none  can  be  sae  dear  to  me,  as  my  sweet  lovely 
Jean ! 

Nothing  can  be  more  lovely  than  the  luxuriant, 
though  rural  imagery,  the  tone  of  placid  but  deep 
tenderness,  which  pervades  this  sweet  song :  anJ 
to  feel  all  its  harmony,  it  is  not  necessary  to  sing 
it — it  is  music  in  itself. 

In  November,  1 788,  Mrs.  Burns  took  up  her  resi- 
dence at  Elliesland,  and  entered  on  her  duties  aa 
a  wife  and  mistress  of  a  family,  and  her  husband 
welcomed  her  to  her  home  ("  her  ain  roof-tree,") 
with  the  lively,  energetic,  but  rather  unquotable 
song,  "  I  hae  a  wife  o'  my  ain  ; "  and  subsequently 


. 

395 


BONNIE   JEAN 

he  wrote  for  her,  "  O  were  I  on 
and  that  delightful  little  bit  of  simple 

She  is  a  winsome  wee  thing, 
She  is  a  handsome  wee  thing, 
She  is  a  bonnie  wee  thing, 

This  sweet  wee  wife  of  mine. 
I  never  saw  a  fairer, 
I  never  lo'ed  a  dearer, — 
And  next  my  heart  I'll  wear  her, 

For  fear  my  jewel  tine ! 


and  one  of  the  finest  of  all  his  ballads,  "  Their 
groves  o'  green  myrtle,"  which  not  only  presents 
i  most  exquisite  rural  picture  to  the  fancy,  but 
breathes  the  very  soul  of  chastened  and  conjugal 
tenderness. 

I  remember,  as  a  particular  instance — I  suppose 
there  are  thousands — of  the  tenacity  with  which 
Burns  seizes  on  the  memory,  and  twines  round  the 
very  fibres  of  one's  heart,  that  when  I  was  travelling 
m  Italy,  along  that  beautiful  declivity  above  the  river 
Clitumnus,  languidly  enjoying  the  balmy  air,  and 
gazing  with  no  careless  eye  on  those  scenes  of  rich 
and  classical  beauty,  over  which  memory  and  fancy 
had  shed 

A  light,  a  glory,  a  fair  luminous  clond 
Enveloping  the  earth; 

even  then,  by  some  strange  association,  a  feeling 
of  my  childish  years  came  over  me,  and  all  the 
livelong  day  I  was  singing ^otto  voce — 


. 


'  '> 


IcV. 


396  CONJUGAL   POETRY. 

Their  groves  o'  sweet  myrtle  let  foreign  lands  reckon^ 
Where  bright-beaming  summers  exalt  the  perfume ; 

Far  dearer  to  me  yon  lone  glen  o'  green  bracken, 
Wi'  the  bui'ii  stealing  under  the  long  yellow  broom! 

Far  dearer  to  me  are  yon  humble  broom  bowers, 
Where  the  bluebell  and  gowan  lurk  lowly  unseen, 

For  there,  lightly  tripping  among  the  wild  flowers, 
A'  listening  the  linnet,  oft  wanders  my  Jean. 

Thus  the  heath,  and  the  bluebell,  and  the  gow- 
an, had  superseded  the  orange  and  the  myrtle  on 
those  Elysian  plains, 

Where  the  crush' d  weed  sends  forth  a  rich  perfume. 

And  Burns  and  Bonnie  Jean  were  in  my  heart  and 
on  my  lips,  on  the  spot  where  Virgil  had  sung, 
and  Fabius  and  Hannibal  met. 

Besides  celebrating  her  in  verse,  Burns  has  left 
us  a  description  of  his  Bonnie  Jean  in  prose.  He 
writes  (some  months  after  his  marriage)  to  his 
friend  Miss  Chalmers, — "  If  I  have  not  got  polite 
tattle,  modish  manners,  and  fashionable  dress,  I  am 
not  sickened  and  disgusted  with  the  multiform 
curse  of  boarding-school  affectation ;  and  I  have 
got  the  handsomest  figure,  the  sweetest  temper,  the 
soun'dest  constitution,  and  the  kindest  heart  in  the 
country.  Mrs.  Burns  believes,  as  firmly  as  her 
creed,  that  I  am  le  plus  bel  esprit,  et  le  plus  Tionnete 
homme  in  the  universe ;  although  she  scarcely  ever 
In  her  life,  (except  reading  the  Scriptures  and  the 
Psalms  of  David  in  metre,)  spent  five  minutes  to 


JEAN.  897 


pether  on  either  prose  or  verse.  I  must  except 
also  a  certain  late  publication  of  Scots  Poems, 
which  she  has  perused  very  devoutly,  and  all  the 
ballads  in  the  country,  as  she  has  (O,  the  partial 
lover  !  you  Avill  say)  the  finest  woodnote-wild  I  ever 
heard." 

After  this,  what  becomes  of  the  insinuation  that 
Burns  made  an  unhappy  .marriage,  —  that  he  was 
"  compelled  to  invest  her  with  the  control  of  his 
life,  whom  he  seems  at  first  to  have  selected  only 
for  the  gratification  of  a  temporary  inclination  ;  " 
and,  "  that  to  this  circumstance  much  of  his  mis- 
conduct is  to  be  attributed  ?  "  Yet  this,  I  be- 
lieve, is  a  prevalent  impression.  Those  whose 
hearts  have  glowed,  and  whose  eyes  have  filled 
with  delicious  tears  over  the  songs  of  Burns,  have 
reason  to  be  grateful  to  Mr.  Lockhart,  and  to  a  kin- 
dred spirit,  Allan  Cunningham,  for  the  generous 
feeling  with  which  they  have  vindicated  Burns  and 
his  Jean.  Such  aspersions  are  not  only  injurious 
to  the  dead  and  cruel  to  the  living,  but  the)'  do  in- 
calculable mischief:  —  they  are  food  for  the  flip- 
pant scoffer  at  all  that  makes  the  "  poetry  of  life." 
They  unsettle  in  gentler  bosoms  all  faith  in  love,  in 
truth,  in  goodness  —  (alas,  such  disbelief  comes  soon 
enough  !)  they  chill  and  revolt  the  heart,  and 
"  take  the  rose  from  the  fair  forehead  of  an  inno- 
cent love  to  set  a  blister  there.*' 

"  That  Burns,"  says  Lockhart,  "  ever  sank  into  a 
toper,  that  his  social  propensities  ever  interfered 
with  the  discharge  of  the  duties  of  his  oflice,  at 


$98  CONJUGAL   POETRY. 

that,  in  spite  of  some  transitory  follies,  ho  ever 
ceased  to  be  a  most  affectionate  husband — all  these 
charges  have  been  insinuated,  and  they  are  all 
false.  His  aberrations  of  all  kinds  were  occasional, 
not  systematic  ;  they  were  the  aberrations  of  a  man 
whose  moral  sense  was  never  deadened — of  one 
who  encountered  more  temptations  from  without 
and  from  within,  than  the  immense  majority  of 
mankind,  far  from  having  to  contend  against,  arc 
even  able  to  imagine,"  and  who  died  in  his  thirty- 
sixth  year,  "  ere  he  had  reached  that  term  of  life 
up  to  which  the  passions  of  many  have  proved  too 
strong  for  the  control  of  reason,  though  their  mortal 
career  being  regarded  as  a  whole,  they  are  honored 
as  among  the  most  virtuous  of  mankind." 

We  are  told  also  of  "  the  conjugal  and  maternal 
tenderness,  the  prudence  and  the  unwearied  for- 
bearance of  his  Jean," — and  that  she  had  much 
need  of  forbearance  is  not  denied;  but  he  ever 
found  in  her  affectionate  arms,  pardon  and  peace, 
and  a  sweetness  that  only  made  the  sense  of  his 
occasional  delinquencies  sting  the  deeper. 

She  still  survives  to  hear  her  name,  her  early 
love,  and  her  youthful  charms,  warbled  in  the  songs 
of  her  native  land.  He,  on  whom  she  bestowed 
her  beauty  and  her  maiden  truth,  dying,  has  left  to 
her  the  mantle  of  his  fame.  What  though  she  be 
now  a  grandmother  ?  to  the  fancy,  she  can  never 
grow  old,  or  die.  We  can  never  bring  her  before 
our  thoughts  but  as  the  lovely,  graceful  country 
girl,  "  lightly  tripping  among  the  wild  flowers,"  and 


BONNIE   JEAN.  399 

tvarbling,  "  Of  a'  the  airs  the  win'  can  blaw," — and 
this,  O  women,  is  what  genius  can  do  for  you ! 
Wherever  the  adventurous  spirit  of  her  country- 
men transport  them,  from  the  spicy  groves  of  India 
to  the  wild  banks  of  the  Mississippi,  the  name  of 
Bonnie  Jean  is  heard,  bringing  back  to  the  wan- 
derer sweet  visions  of  home,  and  of  days  of  "  Auld 
iang  Syne."  The  peasant-girl  sings  it  "  at  the  ewe 
milking,"  and  the  high-born  fair  breathes  it  to  hei 
harp  and  her  piano.  As  long  as  love  and  song 
shall  survive,  even  those  who  have  learned  to  ap- 
preciate the  splendid  dramatic  music  of  Germany 
and  Italy,  who  can  thrill  with  rapture  when  Pasta, 

Queen  and  enchantress  of  the  world  of  sound, 
Pours  forth  her  soul  in  song; 

or  when  Sontag 

Cai-ves  out  her  dainty  voice  as  readily 
Into  a  thousand  sweet  distinguished  tones, 

even  then  shall  still  have  a  soul  for  the  "  Banks  arid 
braes  of  Bonnie  Doon,"  still  keep  a  corner  of  their 
hearts  for  truth  and  nature — and  Burns's  Bonnie 
Jean. 

***** 

While  my  thoughts  are  yet  with  Burns, — his 
name  before  me, — my  heart  and  my  memory  still 
under  that  spell  of  power  which  his  genius  flings 
around  him,  I  will  add  a  few  words  on  the  subject 
of  his  supernumerary  loves ;  for  he  has  celebrated 


400  HIGHLAND    MARY. 

few  imaginary  heroines.  Of  these  rustic  divinities. 
One  of  the  earliest,  and  by  far  the  most  interesting, 
was  Mary  Campbell,  (his  "  Highland  Mary,")  the 
object  of  the  deepest  passion  Burns  ever  felt ;  the 
subject  of  some  of  his  loveliest  songs,  and  of  the 
elegy  "  To  Mary  in  Heaven." 

Whatever  this  young  girl  may  have  been  in  per- 
son or  condition,  she  must  have  possessed  some 
striking  qualities  and  charms  to  have  inspired  a 
passion  so  ardent,  and  regrets  so  lasting,  in  a  man 
of  Burns's  character.  She  was  not  his  first  love, 
nor  his  second,  nor  his  third  ;  for  from  the  age  of 
sixteen  there  seems  to  have  been  no  interregnum  in 
his  fancy.  His  heart,  he  says,  was  "  completely 
tender,  and  eternally  lighted  up  by  some  goddess 
or  other."  His  acquaintance  with  Mary  Camp- 
bell began  when  he  was  about  two  or  three-and- 
twenty:  he  was  then  residing  at  Mossgiel,  with  his 
brother,  and  she  was  a  servant  on  a  neighbouring 
farm.  Their  affection  was  reciprocal,  and  they 
were  solemnly  plighted  to  each  other.  "  We  met," 
says  Burns,  "  by  appointment,  on  the  second  Sun- 
day in  May,  in  a  sequestered  spot  by  the  banks  of 
the  Ayr,  where  we  spent  a  day  in  taking  a  fare- 
well, before  she  should  embark  for  the  West  High- 
lands, to  arrange  matters  among  her  friends  for  our 
projected  change  of  life."  "  This  adieu,"  says  Mr. 
Cromek,  "  was  performed  with  all  those  simple  and 
striking  ceremonials  which  rustic  sentiment  has  de- 
vised to  prolong  tender  emotions  and  to  impose 
awe.  The  lovers  stood  on  each  side  of  a  small 


HIGHLAND    MA11Y.  401 

purling  brook ;  they  laved  their  hands  in  the  stream, 
and  holding  a  Bible  between  them,  pronounced 
their  vows  to  be  faithful  to  each  other."  This  very 
Bible  has  recently  been  discovered  in  the  posses- 
sion of  Mary  Campbell's  sister.  On  the  boards  of 
the  Old  Testament  is  inscribed,  in  Burns's  hand- 
writing, "  And  ye  shall  not  swear  by  my  name 
falsely,  I  am  the  Lord." — Levit.  chap.  xix.  v.  12. 
On  the  boards  of  the  New  Testament,  "  Thou  shalt 
no'-  forswear  thyself,  but  shalt  perform  unto  the 
Loid  thine  oaths." — St.  Matth.  chap.  v.  v.  33,  and 
his  own  name  in  both.  Soon  afterwards,  disasters 
came  upon  him,  and  he  thought  of  going  to  try  his 
fortune  in  Jamaica.  Then  it  was,  that  he  wrote  the 
simple,  wild,  bat  powerful  lyric,  "  Will  ye  go  to  the 
Indies,  my  Mary  ?  " 

Wm  y^  go  to  the  Indies,  my  Mary, 

And  leave  old  Scotia's  shore? 
Vill  ye  go  the  Indies,  my  Mary, 
Across  the  Atlantic's  roar? 

0  sweet  grows  the  lime  and  the  orange, 
And  the  apple  on  the  pine ; 

But  all  the  charms  o'  the  Indies 
Can  never  equal  thine. 

1  hae  sworn  by  the  heavens  to  my  Mary, 
I  hae  sworn  by  the  heavens  to  be  true; 

And  sae  may  the  heavens  forget  me 
When  I  forget  my  vow ! 

O  plight  me  your  faith,  my  Mary ! 
And  plight  me  your  lily-white  hand; 
26 


402  HIGHLAND   MARY. 

0  plight  me  your  faith,  my  Mary, 
Before  I  leave  Scotia's  strand. 

We  hae  plighted  our  faith,  my  Mary, 

In  mutual  affection  to  join; 
And  curst  be  the  cause  that  shall  part  us — 

The  hour,  and  the  moment  of  time ! 

As  I  have  seen  among  the  Alps  the  living  stream 
rise,  swelling  and  bubbling,  from  some  cleft  in  the 
mountain's  breast,  then,  with  a  broken  and  troubled 
impetuosity,  rushing  amain  over  all  impediments, — 
then  leaping,  at  a  bound,  into  the  abyss  below  ;  so 
this  song  seems  poured  forth  out  of  the  full  heart, 
as  if  a  gush  of  passion  had  broken  forth,  that  could 
not  be  restrained;  and  so  the  feeling  seems  to 
swell  and  hurry  through  the  lines,  till  it  ends  in 
one  wild  burst  of  energy  and  pathos — 

And  curst  be  the  cause  that  shall  part  us — 
The  hour,  and  the  moment  of  time ! 

A  few  months  after  this  "  day  of  parting  love," 
on  the  banks  of  the  Ayr,  Mary  Campbell  set  off 
from  Inverary  to  meet  her  lover,  as  I  suppose,  to 
take  leave  of  him ;  for  it  should  seem  that  no 
thoughts  of  a  union  could  then  be  indulged. 
Having  reached  Greenock,  she  was  seized  with  a 
malignant  fever,  which  hurried  her  to  the  grave 
in  a  few  days ;  so  that  the  tidings  of  her  death 
reached  her  lover,  before  he  could  even  hear  of 
her  illness.  How  deep  and  terrible  was  the  shock 
'o  his  strong  and  ardent  mind, — how  lasting  the 


HIGHLAND   MARY.  403 

memory  of  this  early  love,  is  well  known.  Years 
after  her  death,  he  wrote  the  song  of  "  Highland 
Mary."* 

0  pale,  pal  a  now  those  rosy  lips 

I  oft  hae  kiss'd  so  fondly ! 
And  clos'd  for  aye  the  sparkling  glance 

That  dwelt  on  me  sae  kindly ! 

And  mouldering  now  in  silent  dust, 

The  heart  that  lo'ed  me  dearly; 
But  aye  within  my  bosom's  core 

Shall  live  my  Highland  Mary. 

The  elegy  "  To  Mary  in  Heaven,"  was  written 
about  a  year  after  his  marriage,  on  the  anniversary 
of  the  day  on  which  he  heard  of  the  death  of 
Mary  Campbell.  The  account  of  the  feelings  and 
the  circumstances  under  which  it  was  composed, 
was  taken  from  the  recital  of  Bonnie  Jean  herself, 
and  cannot  be  read  without  a  thrill  of  emotion. 
"  According  to  her,  Burns  had  spent  that  day, 
though  laboring  under  a  cold,  in  the  usual  work  of 
his  harvest,  and  apparently  in  excellent  spirits. 
But  as  the  twilight  deepened,  he  appeared  to  grow 
very  sad  about  something,'  and  at  length  wan- 
dered out  into  the  barn-yard,  to  which  his  wife,  in 

*  Beginning,— 

"  Ye  banks  and  braes  and  streams  around 

The  castle  o'  Montgomerie." 

As  the  works  of  Burns  are  probably  in  the  hands  of  all  who 
will  read  this  little  hook,  those  who  have  not  his  finest  passages 
by  heart,  can  easily  refer  to  them.  I  felt  it  therefore  superfluoui 
to  give  at  length  the  song  alluded  to. 


404  HIGHLAND    MARY. 

her  anxiety  for  his  health,  followed  him,  entreating 
him,  in  vain,  to  observe  that  frost  had  set  in,  and 
to  return  to  his  fireside.  On  being  again  and 
again  requested  to  do  so,  he  always  promised  com- 
pliance, but  still  remained  where  he  was.  striding 
up  and  down  slowly,  and  contemplating  the  sky, 
which  was  singularly  clear  and  starry.  At  last, 
Mrs.  Burns  found  him  stretched  on  a  heap  of  straw, 
with  his  eyes  fixed  on  a  beautiful  planet,  c  that 
shone  like  another  moon,'  and  prevailed  on  him  to 
come  in."*  He  complied;  and  immediately  on 
entering  the  house,  wrote  down,  as  they  now  stand, 
the  stanzas  "  To  Mary  in  Heaven." 

Mary  Campbell  was  a  poor  peasant-girl,  whose 
life  had  been  spent  in  servile  offices,  who  could 
just  spell  a  verse  in  her  Bible,  and  could  not 
write  at  all, — who  walked  barefoot  to  that  meeting 
on  the  banks  of  the  Ayr,  which  her  lover  has  re- 
corded. But  Mary  Campbell  will  live  to  memory 
while  the  music  and  the  language  of  her  country 
endure.  Helen  of  Greece  and  the  Carthage 
Queen  are  not  more  surely  immortalized  than  this 
plebeian  girl. — The  scene  of  parting  love,  on  the 
banks  of  the  Ayr,  that  spot  where  "  the  golden 
hours,  on  angel-wings,"  hovered  over  Burns  and 
his  Mary,  is  classic  ground ;  Vaucluse  ,and  Pens- 
hurst  are  not.  more  lastingly  consecrated:  and 
like  the  copy  of  Virgil,  in  which  Petrarch  noted 
down  the  death  of  Laura,  which  many  have  made 
i  pilgrimage  but  to  look  on,  even  such  a  relic  shaV 
*  Lockhart's  Life  of  Burns. 


LOVES    OF    BURNS.  405 

be  the  Bible  of  Highland  Mary.  Some  far-famed 
collection  shall  be  proud  to  possess  it ;  and  many 
hereafter  shall  gaze,  with  glistening  eyes,  on  the 
handwriting  of  him, — who  by  the  mere  power  of 
truth  and  passion,  shall  live  in  all  hearts  to  the  end 
of  time. 

*  *  *  *  * 

Some  other  loves  commemorated  by  Burns  are 
not  very  interesting  or  reputable.  "  The  lassie  wi' 
the  lint  white  locks,"  the  heroine  of  many  beautiful 
songs,  was  an  erring  sister,  who,  as  she  was  the 
object  of  a  poet's  admiration,  shall  be  suffered  to 
fade  into  a  shadow.  The  subject  of  the  song, 

Had  we  never  lov'd  sae  kindly — 
Had  we  never  lov'd  sae  blindly — 
Never  met — or  never  parted — 
We  had  ne'er  been  broken-hearted, 

was  also  real,  and  I  am  afraid,  a  person  of  the 
same  description.  Of  these  four  lines,  Sir  Walter 
Scott  has  said,  "  that  they  were  worth  a  thousand 
romances ; "  and  not  only  so,  but  they  are  in  them- 
selves* a  complete  romance.  They  are  the  alpha 
and  omega  of  feeling ;  and  contain  the  essence  of 
an  existence  of  pain  and  pleasure,  distilled  into 
one  burning  drop.  Of  almost  all  his  songs  the 
heroines  are  real,  though  we  must  not  suppose  he 
was  in  love  with  aii  of  them, — that  were  too  un- 
conscionable ;  but  he  sought  inspiration,  and  found 
it,  where  he  could  not  have  hoped  any  farther 
boon.  In  one  of  his  letters  to  Mr.  Thompson,  for 


406  LOVES   OF   BURNS. 

whose  collection  of  Scottish  airs  he  was  then 
adapting  words,  he  says,  "  Whenever  I  want  to  be 
more  than  ordinary  in  song,  to  be  in  some  degree 
equal  to  your  divine  airs,  do  you  imagine  I  fast 
and  pray  for  the  celestial  emanation  '? — tout  au 
contraire.  I  have  a  glorious  recipe,  the  very  ono 
that,  for  -his  own  use,  was  invented  by  the  divinity 
of  healing  and  poetry,  when  erst  he  piped  to  the 
flocks  of  Admetus, — I  put  myself  on  a  regimen  of 
admiring  a  fine  woman." 

Thus  tbe  original  blue  eyes  which  inspired  that 
sweet  song.,  "  Her  een  sae  bonnie  blue,"  belonged 
to  a  Miss  Jeffreys,  now  married  and  living  at  New 
York.  We  owe  "  She's  fair  and  she's  false,"  to 
the  fickleness  of  a  Miss  Jane  Stuart,  who,  it  is 
said,  jilted  the  poet's  friend,  Alexander  Cunning- 
ham.— "  The  bonnie  wee  thing,"  was  a  very  little, 
very  lovely  creature,  a  Miss  Davies  ;  and  the  song, 
it  has  been  well  said,  is  as  brief  and  as  beautiful  as 
the  lady  herself.  The  heroine  of  "  O  saw  ye 
bonnie  Leslie,"  is  now  Mrs.  Gumming  of  Logie : 
Mrs.  Dugald  Stewart,  herself  a  delightful  poetess, 
inspired  the  pastoral  song  of  Afton  Water ;  and 
every  woman  has  an  interest  in  "  Green  grow  the 
Rashes."  All  the  compliments  that  were  ever  paid 
us  by  the  other  sex,  in  prose  and  verse,  may  be 
gummed  up  in  Burns's  line, 

What  signifies  the  life  c'  man,  'an  'twere  na  or  the  lassies 
0? 

It  were,  however,  an   endless  task  to  give  a  list 


LOVES    OF    BURNS.  407 

of  his  heroines ;  and  those  who  are  curious  about 
the  personal  history  of  the  poet,  of  which  his  songs 
are  "  part  and  parcel,"  must  be  referred  to  higher 
and  more  general  sources  of  information.* 

Burns  used  to  say,  after  he  had  been  introduced 
into  society  above  his  own  rank  in  life,  that  he 
saw  nothing  in  the  gentlemen  much  superior  to 
what  he  had  been  accustomed  to ;  but  that  a  re- 
fined and  elegant  woman  was  a  being  of  whom  he 
could  have  formed  no  previous  idea.  This,  I  think, 
will  explain,  if  it  does  not  excuse,  the  characteristic 
freedom  of  some  of  his  songs.  His  love  is  ardent 
and  sincere,  and  it  is  expressed  with  great  poetic 
power,  and  often  with  the  most  exquisite  pathos ; 
but  still  it  is  the  love  of  a  peasant  for  a  peasant, 
and  he  woos  his  rustic  beauties  in  a  style  of  the 
most  entire  equality  and  familiarity.  It  is  not  the 
homage  of  one  who  waited,  a  suppliant,  on  the 
throne  of  triumphant  beauty.  "  He  drew  no  magic 
circle  of  lofty  and  romantic  thought  around  those 
he  loved,  which  could  not  be  passed  without  lower- 
ing them  from  stations  little  lower  than  the  angels."f 
Still,  his  faults  against  taste  and  propriety  are  far 
fewer  and  lighter  than  might  have  been  expected 
from  his  habits ;  and  as  he  acknowledged  that  he 
could  have  formed  no  idea  of  a  woman  refined  by 
high  breeding  and  education,  we  cannot  be  sur- 
prised if  he  sometimes  committed  solecisms  of 

*  To  the  "  Reliques  of  Burns,  by  Cromek;"  to  the  Edition  of 
4ie  Scottish  Songs,  with  notes,  by  Allan  Cunningham;  and  to 
Lockhart's  Life  of  Burns.  t  Allan  Cunningham 


408  CONJUGAL    POETRY. 

which  he  was  scarcely  aware.  For  instance,  he  met 
a  young  lady,  (Miss  Alexander,  of  Ballochmyle,) 
walking  in  her  father's  grounds,  and  struck  by  her 
charms  and  elegance,  he  wrote  in  her  honor  hia 
well  known  song,  "  The  lovely  lass  of  Ballochmyle," 
and  sent  it  to  her.  He  was  astonished  and  offended 
thai  no  notice  was  taken  of  it ;  but  really,  a  young 
lady,  educated  in  a  due  regard  for  the  convenances 
and  the  bienseances  of  society,  may  be  excused,  if 
she  was  more  embarrassed  than  flattered  by  the 
homage  of  a  poet,  who  talked,  at  the  first  glance, 
of  "  clasping  her  to  his  bosom."  It  was  rather  pre- 
cipitating things. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

CONJUGAL   POETRY,   CONTINUED. 
MONTI  AND  HIS  WIFE. 

MONTI,  who  is  lately  dead,  will  at  length  be  al- 
lowed to  take  the  place  which  belongs  to  him  among 
the  great  names  of  his  country.  A  poet  is  ill  cal- 
culated to  play  the  part  of  a  politician ;  and  the 
praise  and  blame  which  have  been  so  profusely  and 
indiscriminately  heaped  on  Monti  while  living,  must 
be  removed  by  time  and  dispassionate  criticism,  be- 
fore justice  can  be  done  to  him,  either  as  a  man  or 


MONTI    AND    HIS    WIFE.  409 

a  poet.  The  mingled  grace  and  energy  of  his  style 
obtained  him  the  name  of  il  Dante  yrazioso,  and  he 
has  left  behind  him  something  striking  in  every 
possible  form  of  composition, — lyric,  dramatic,  epic, 
and  satirical. 

Amid  all  the  changes  of  his  various  life,  and  all 
the  trying  vicissitudes  of  spirits — the  wear  and 
tear  of  mind  which  attend  a  poet  by  profession, 
tasked  to  almost  constant  exertion,  Monti  possessed 
two  enviable  treasures ; — a  lovely  and  devoted  wife, 
with  a  soul  which  could  appreciate  his  powers  and 
talents,  and  exult  in  his  fame ;  and  a  daughter 
equally  amiable,  and  yet  more  beautiful  and  highly 
gifted.  He  has  immortalized  both ;  and  has  left  ua 
delightful  proofs  of  the  charm  and  the  glory  which 
poetry  can  throw  round  the  purest  and  most  hal- 
Wed  relations  of  domestic  life. 

When  Monti  was  a  young  man  at  Rome,  caressed 
by  popes  and  nephews  of  popes,  and  with  the 
most  brilliant  ecclesiastical  preferment  opening  be- 
fore him,  all  his  views  in  life  were  at  once  bouleverse 
by  a  passion,  which  does  sometimes  in  real  life  play 
the  part  assigned  to  it  in  romance — trampling  on 
interest  and  ambition,  and  mocking  at  cardinals' 
hats  and  tiaras.  Monti  fell  into  love  and  fell  out 
of  the  good  graces  of  his  patrons :  he  threw  off 
the  habit  of  an  abbate,*  married  his  Teresa,  in  spite 
of  the  world  and  fortune ;  and  instead  of  an  aspir-  • 
ing  priest,  became  a  great  poet. 

Teresa  Pichler  was  the   daughter  of  Pichler, 

*  Worn  by  the  young  men  who  are  intended  for  the  Chu  rch 


410  CONJUGAL   POETRY. 

the  .jelfbrated  gem  engraver.  I  have  heard  her 
described,  by  those  who  knew  her  in  her  younger 
years,  as  one  of  the  most  beautiful  creatures  in  the 
world.  Brought  up  in  the  studio  of  her  father,  in 
whom  the  spirit  of  ancient  art  seemed  to  have  re- 
vived for  modern  times,  Teresa's  mind  as  well  as 
person  had  caught  a  certain  impress  of  antique 
grace,  from  the  constant  presence  of  beautiful  and 
majestic  forms:  but  her  favorite  study  was  music, 
in  which  she  was  a  proficient ;  her  voice  and  her 
harp  made  as  many  conquests  as  her  faultless  figure 
and  her  bright  eyes.  After  her  marriage  she  did 
not  neglect  her  favorite  art ;  and  she,  whose  talent 
had  charmed  Zingarelli  and  Guglielmi,  was  ac- 
customed, in  their  hours  of  domestic  privacy,  to 
soothe,  to  enchant,  to  inspire,  her  husband.  Monti, 
in  one  of  his  poems,  has  tenderly  commemorated 
her  musical  powers.  He  calls  on  his  wife  during  a 
period  of  persecution,  poverty,  and  despondency, 
to  touch  her  harp,  and  as  she  was  wont,  rouse  his 
sinking  spirit,  and  unlock  the  source  of  nobler 
thoughts. 

Stendi,  dolce  amor  mio !  sposa  diletta ! 
A  quell'  arpa  la  man;  che  la  soave, 

Dolce  fatica  di  tue  dite  aspetta. 
Svegliami  1'armonia,  ch'  entro  le  cave 

Latebre  alberga  del  sonoro  legno, 
E  de'  forti  pensier  volgi  la  chiave ! 

There  is  a  resemblance  in  the  sentiment  of  these 
verses,  to  some  stanzas  addressed  by  a  living  Eng 
t*sh  poet  to  his  wife ; — she  who,  like  Monti's  Teresa, 


MONTI    AND    HIS    WIFE.  411 

can  strike  her  harp,  till,  as  a  spirit  caught  in  some 
spell  of  his  own  teaching,  music  itself  seems  to 
flutter,  imprisoned  among  the  chords, — to  come  at 
her  will  and  breathe  her  thought,  rather  than  obey 
her  touch! — 

Once  more,  among  these  rich  and  golden  strings 

Wander  with  thy  white  arm,  dear  Lady  pale ! 
Arid  when  at  last  from  thy  sweet  discord  springs 

The  aerial  music, — like  the  dreams  that  veil 
Earth's  shadows  with  diviner  thoughts  and  things, 

0  let  the  passion  and  the  time  prevail ! — 
0  bid  thy  spirit  through  the  mazes  run ! 

For  music  is  like  love,  and  must  be  won !  £c.* 

The  Italian  verses  have  great  power  and  beauty ; 
but  the  English  lines  have  the  superiority,  not  in 
poetry  only,  but  in  rhythmical  melody.  They  fall 
on  the  ear  like  a  strain  from  the  harp  which  in- 
spired them — full,  and  rich,  and  thrilling  sweet, — 
and  not  to  be  forgotten ! 

To  return  to  Monti ; — no  man  had  more  complete- 
ly that  temperament  which  is  supposed  to  accom- 
pany genius.  He  was  fond,  and  devoted  in  his 
domestic  relations ;  but  he  was  variable  in  spirits, 
ardent,  restless,  and  subject  to  fits  of  gloom.  And 
how  often  must  the  literary  disputes  and  political 
tracasseries  in  which  he  was  engaged,  have  embit- 
tered and  irritated  so  susceptible  a  mind  and  tem- 
per !  If  his  wife  were  at  his  side  to  soothe  him  with 
her  music,  and  her  smiles,  and  her  tenderness, — it 
was  well, — the  cloud  passed  away.  If  she  were 

*  Barry  Cornwall 


412  CONJUGAL   POETL  7. 

absent,  every  suffering  seemed  aggravated,  arid  we 
find  him — like  one  spoiled  and  pampered,  with  at- 
tention and  love, — yielding  to  an  irritable  despond- 
ency, which  even  the  presence  of  his  children  could 
not  alleviate. 

Che  piu  ti  resta  a  far  per  mio  dispetto, 
Sorte  crndel  ?  mia  donna  e  lungi,  e  io  privo, 
De'  suoi  conforti  in  miserando  aspetto 
i        Egro  qui  giacc\o,  al'  sofferir  sol  vivo !  * 

But  the  most  remarkable  of  all  Monti's  conjugal 
effusions,  is  a  canzone  written  a  short  time  before 
his  death,  and  when  he  was  more  than  seventy 
years  of  age.  Nothing  can  be  more  affecting  than 
the  subdued  tone  of  melancholy  tenderness,  with 
which  the  gray-haired  poet  apostrophizes  her  who 
had  been  the  love,  the  pride,  the  joy  of  his  life  for 
forty  years.  In  power  and  in  poetry,  this  canzone 
will  bear  a  comparison  with  many  of  the  more  rap- 
turous effusions  of  his  youth.  The  occasion  on 
which  it  was  composed  is  thus  related  in  a  note 
prefixed  to  it  by  the  editor.f  When  Monti  was 
recovering  from  a  long  and  dangerous  illness,, 
through  which  he  had  been  tenderly  nursed  by  his 
wife  and  daughter,  he  accompanied  them  "  in  vil- 
leggiatura,"  to  a  villa  near  Brianza,  the  residence 
of  a  friend,  where  they  were  accustomed  to  cele- 
brate the  birthday  of  Madame  Monti ;  and  it  was 

*  Opere  Varie,  v.  iii.    This  sonnet  to  his  wife  was  written  whc» 
Monti  was  ill  at  the  house  of  his  son-in-law,  Count  Perticari. 
t  Edit.  1826,  vol.  vi. 


IVTOXTI    AND    HIS    WIFE.  418 

here  that  her  husband,  now  declining  in  years, 
weak  from  recent  illness  and  accumulated  infir- 
mities, addressed  to  her  the  poem  which  may  be 
found  in  the  recent  edition  of  his  works;  it  begins 
thus  tenderly  and  sweetly — 

Donna !  dell'  alma  mia  parte  piti  cara ! 
Perclie  muta  in  pensosa  atto  mi  guati  ? 
E  di  segrete  stille, 
Rugiadose  si  fan  le  tue  pupille?  &c. 

"  Why,  O  thou  dearer  half  of  my  soul,  dost  thou 
watch  over  me  thus  mute  and  pensive  ?  Why  are 
thine  eyes  heavy  with  suppressed  tears  ?  "  &c. 

And  when  he  reminds  her  touchingly,  that  his 
long  and  troubled  life  is  drawing  to  its  natural 
close,  and  that  she  cannot  hope  to  retain  him  much 
longer,  even  by  all  her  love  and  care, — he  adds 
with  a  noble  spirit, — "  Remember,  that  Monti  can- 
not wholly  die  !  think,  O  think  !  1  leave  thee  dow- 
ered with  no  obscure,  no  vulgar  name !  for  the  day 
shall  come,  when,  among  the  matrons  of  Italy,  it 
shall  be  thy  boast  to  say, — '  I  was  the  love  of  Mon- 
ti.'"* 

The  tender  translation  to  his  daughter — 

E  tu  del  pari  sventurata  e  cara  mia  figlia! 

as  alike  unhappy  and  beloved,  alludes  to  her  re- 
cent widowhood.  Costanza  Monti,  who  inherited 
no  small  portion  of  her  father's  genius,  and  all  her 
mother's  grace  and  beauty,  married  the  Count 

*  In  the  original,  Monti  designates  himself  by  an  allusion  to 
bis  chef-d'oeuvre—"  Del  Cantor  di  Basville." 


414  POETS   AND   BEAUTIES. 

Giulio  Perticari  of  Pesaro,  a  man  of  unoommoi 
taste  and  talents,  and  an  admired  poet.  He  died 
in  the  same  year  with  Canova,  to  whom  he  had 
been  a  favorite  friend  and  companion  :  while  hig 
lovely  wife  furnished  the  sculptor  with  a  model  for 
his  ideal  heads  of  vestals  and  poetesses.  Those 
who  saw  the  Countess  Per  ticari  at  Rome,  such  as 
she  appeared  seven  or  eight  years  ago,  will  not 
easily  forget  her  brilliant  eyes,  and  yet  more  bril- 
liant talents.  She,  too,  is  a  poetess.  In  her  father's 
works  may  be  found  a  little  canzone  written  by  her 
about  a  year  after  the  death  of  her  husband,  and 
with  equal  tenderness  and  simplicity,  alluding  to 
her  lonely  state,  deprived  of  him  who  once  encour- 
aged and  cultivated  her  talents,  and  deserved  her 
love.* 

Vincenzo  Monti   died   in  October,  1828  ; — his 
widow  and  his  daughter  reside,  I  believe,  at  Milan. 


'1381 


CHAPTER  XXTII. 

POETS    AND   BEAUTIES, 
FROM    CHARLES    EC.  TO    QUEEN    ANNB. 

THUS,  then,  it  appears,  that  love,  even  the  most 
ethereal  and  poetical,  does  not  always  take  flight 

*  Monti,  Opere,  vol.  ill.  p.  75. 


POETS    AND    BEAT'TIES.  415 

"  at  sight  of  human  ties  ;"  and  Pope  wronged  the 
real  delicacy  of  Heloise  when  he  put  this  borrowed 
sentiment  into  her  epistle,  making  that  conduct  the 
result  of  perverted  principle,  which,  in  her,  was  a 
sacrifice  to  extreme  love  and  pride  in  its  object 
It  is  not  the  mere  idea  of  bondage  which  frightens 
away  the  light-winged  god  ; 

The  gentle  bird  feels  no  captivity 

Within  his  cage,  but  sings  and  feeds  his  fi,1!.* 

It  is  when  those  bonds,  which  were  first  decreed  in 
heaven 

To  keep  two  hearts  together,  which  began 
Their  spring-time  with  one  love, 

are  abused  to  vilest  purposes: — to  link  together 
indissolubly,  unworthiness  with  desert,  truth  with 
falsehood,  brutality  with  gentleness  ;  then,  indeed, 
love  is  scared  ;  his  cage  becomes  a  dungeon ; — and 
either  he  breaks  away,  with  plumage  all  impaired, 
— or  folds  up  his  many-colored  wings,  and  droops 
and  dies. 

But  then  it  will  be  said,  perhaps,  that  the  splen- 
dor and  the  charm  which  poetry  has  thrown  over 
some  of  these  pictures  of  conjugal  affection  and 
wedded  truth,  are  exterior  and  adventitious,  or,  at 
best,  short-lived : — the  bands  were  at  first  graceful 
and  flowery; — but  sorrow  dewed  them  with  tears. 
or  selfish  passions  sullied  them,  or  death  tore  them 


416  POETS    AND    BEAUTIES 

asunder,  or  trampled  them  down.    It  may  be  so 
but  still,  I  will  aver  that  what  has  been,  is ; — that 
there  is  a  power  in  the  human  heart  which  sur- 
vives sorrow,  passion,  age,  death  itself. 

Love  I  esteem  more  strong  than  age, 
And  truth  more  permanent  than  time. 

For  happiness,  c'est  different !  and  for  that  bright 
and  pure  and  intoxicating  happiness  which  we 
weave  into  our  youthful  visions,  which  is  of  such 
stuff  as  dreams  are  made  of, — to  complain  that  this 
does  not  last  and  wait  upon  us  through  life,  is  to 
complain  that  earth  is  earth,  not  heaven.  It  is  to 
repine  that  the  violet  does  not  outlive  the  spring ; 
that  the  rose  dies  upon  the  breast  of  June-;  that 
the  gray  evening  shuts  up  the  eye  of  day,  and  that 
old  age  quenches  the  glow  of  youth :  for  is  not  such 
the  condition  under  which  we  exist  V  All  I  wished 
to  prove  was,  that  the  sacred  tie  which  binds  the 
sexes  together,  which  gives  to  man  his  natural 
refuge  in  the  tenderness  of  woman,  and  to  woman 
her  natural  protecting  stay  in  the  right  reason  and 
stronger  powers  of  man,  so  far  from  being  a  chill 
to  the  imagination,  as  wicked  wits  would  tell  us, 
has  its  poetical  side.  Let  us  look  back  for  a  mo- 
merit  on  the  array  of  bright  names  and  beautiful 
verse,  quoted  or  alluded  to  in  the  preceding  chap- 
ters :  what  is  there  among  the  mercurial  poets  of 
Charles's  days,  those  notorious  scoffers  at  decency 
and  constancy,  to  compare  with  them  ? — Dorset 
and  Denham,  and  Sedley  and  Suckling,  and  Roch- 


POETS   ANt>   BEAUTIES.  417 

, — "the  mob  of  gentlemen  who  wrote  with 
ease,"  with  their  smooth  emptiness,  and  sparkling 
commonplaces  of  artificial  courtship,  and  total  want 
of  moral  sentiment,  have  degraded,  not  elevated 
the  loves  they  sang.  Could  these  gallant  fops  rise 
up  from  their  graves,  and  see  themselves  exiled 
with  contempt  from  every  woman's  toilet,  every 
woman's  library,  every  woman's  memory,  they 
would  choke  themselves  with  their  own  periwigs, 
eat  their  laced  cravats,  hang  themselves  in  their 
own  sword-knots  ! — "  to  be  discarded  thence ! " 

Turn  thy  complexion  there, 

Thou  simpering,  smooth-llpp'd  cherub,  Coxcombry, 
Ay,  there,  look  grim  as  hell ! 

And  such  be  the  fate  of  all  who  dare  profane  the 
altar  of  beauty  with  adulterate  incense  ! 

For  wit  is  like  the  frail  luxuriant  vine, 

Unless  to  virtue's  prop  it  join; 

Though  it  with  beauteous  leaves  and  pleasant  fruit  be 

crown' d, 
It  lies  deform' d  and  rotting  on  the  ground ! 

These  lines  are  from  Cowley,  a  great  name 
among  the  poets  of  those  days  ;  but  he  has  sunk 
into  a  name.  We  may  repeat  with  Pope,  "  Who 
now  reads  Cowley  ?  "  and  this,  not  because  he  was 
licentious,  but  because,  with  all  his  elaborate  wit, 
and  brilliant  and  uncommon  thoughts,  he  is  as 
frigid  as  ice  itself.  "  A  little  ingenuity  and  arti- 
fice," as  Mrs.  Malaprop  would  say,  is  well  enough 
but  Cowley,  in  his  amatory  poetry,  is  all  artifice. 
27 


418  POETS    AND    BEAUTIES. 

He  coolly  sat  down  to  write  a  volume  of  love 
verses,  that  he  might,  to  use  his  own  expression, 
"  be  free  of  his  craft,  as  a  poet ;  "  and  in  his  pre- 
face, he  protests  "  that  his  testimony  should  not  be 
taken  against  himself."  Here  was  a  poet,  and  a 
lover  !  who  sets  out  by  begging  his  readers,  in  the 
first  place,  not  to  believe  him.  This  was  like  the 
weaver,  in  the  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  who 
was  so  anxious  to  assure  the  audience  "  that  Pyra- 
mus  was  not  killed  indeed,  and  that  he,  Pyramus, 
was  not  Pyramus,  but  Bottom  the  weaver."  But 
Cowley's  amatory  verse  disproves  itself,  without 
the  help  of  a  prologue.  It  is,  in  his  own  phrase, 
"  all  sophisticate."  Even  his  sparkling  chronicle 
of  beauties, 

Margaretta  first  possest, 

If  I  remember  well,  my  breast,  &c. 

is  mere  fancy,  and  in  truth  it  is  a  pity.  Cowley 
was  once  in  love,  after  his  querulous  melancholy 
fashion ;  but  he  never  had  the  courage  to  avow  it 
The  lady  alluded  to  in  the  last  verse  of  the  Chron- 
icle, as 

Eleonora,  first  of  the  name, 
Whom  God  grant  long  to  reign, 

was  the  object  of  this  luckless  attachment.  She 
afterwards  married  a  brother  of  Dr.  Spratt,  Bishop 
of  Rochester,*  who  had  not  probably  half  the 
poet's  wit  or  fame,  but  who  could  love  as  well  and 
speak  better;  and  the  gentle,  amiable  Cowlot 
died  an  old  l*achelor. 

*  Spence's  Anecdotes,  Sing.  edit. 


POETS  AND  BEAUTIES.  419 

These  writers  may  have  merit  of  a  different  kind  ; 
they  may  be  read  by  wits  for  the  sake  of  their  wit ; 
but  they  have  failed  in  the  great  object  of  lyric 
poetry  :  they  neither  create  sympathy  for  them- 
selves, nor  interest,  nor  respect  for  their  mistresses : 
they  were  not  in  earnest ; — and  what  woman  of 
sense  and  feeling  was  ever  touched  by  a  compli- 
ment which  no  woman  ever  inspired  ?  or  pleased, 
by  being  addressed  with  the  swaggering  license  of 
a  libertine  ?  Who  cares  to  inquire  after  the  origi- 
nals of  their  Belindas  and  Clorindas — their  Chloes, 
Delias,  and  Phillises,  with  their  pastoral  names, 
and  loves — that  were  any  thing  but  pastoral? 
There  is  not  one  among  the  flaunting  coquettes, 
or  profligate  women  of  fashion,  sung  by  these  gay 
coxcomb  poets, 

Those  goddesses,  so  blithe,  so  smooth,  so  gay 
Yet  empty  of  all  good  wherein  consists 
Woman's  domestic  honor  and  chief  praise, 

who  has  obtained  an  interest  in  our  memory,  or  a 
permanent  place  in  the  history  of  our  literature ; 
not  one,  who  would  not  be  eclipsed  by  Bonnie 
Jean,  or  Highland  Mary  !  It  is  true,  that  the  age 
produced  several  remarkable  women ;  a  Lady 
Russell,  that  heroine  of  heroines !  a  Lady  Fan- 
shawe  ;*  a  Mrs.  Hutchinson  ;  who  needed  no  poet 
to  trumpet  forth  their  praise  :  and  others, — some 
celebrated  for  the  possession  of  beauty  and  talents, 

*  See  he •  beautiful  Memoirs,  recently  published. 


420  POETS    AND    BEAUTIES. 

and  too  many  notorious  for  the  abuse  of  both.  But 
there  were  no  poetical  heroines,  properly  so  called, 
— no  Laura,  no  Geraldine,  no  Saccharissa.  Among 
(he  temporary  idols  of  the  day,  (by  which  name 
we  shall  distinguish  those  women  whose  beauty 
rank,  and  patronage,  procured  them  a  sort  of  poet- 
ical celebrity,  very  different  from  the  halo  of  splen- 
dor which  love  and  genius  cast  round  a  chosen 
divinity,)  there  are  one  or  two  who  deserve  to  be 
particularized. 

The  first  of  these  was  Maria  Beatrice  d'Este,  the 
daughter  of  the  Duke  of  Modena,  second  wife  of 
James  Duke  of  York,  and  afterwards  his  queen. 
She  was  married,  at  the  age  of  fifteen,  to  a  profli- 
gate prince,  as  ugly  as  his  brother  Charles,  (with- 
out any  of  his  captivating  graces  of  figure  and 
manner,)  and  old  enough  to  be  her  grandfather. 
She  made  the  best  of  wives  to  one  of  the  most  un am- 
iable of  men.  All  writers  of  all  parties  are  agreed, 
that  slander  itself  was  disarmed  by  the  unoffending 
gentleness  of  her  character  ;  'all  are  agreed  too,  on 
the  subject  of  her  uncommon  loveliness :  she  waa 
quite  an  Italian  beauty,  with  a  tall,  dignified,  grace- 
ful figure,  regular  features,  and  dark  eyes,  a  com- 
plexion rather  pale  and  fair,  and  hair  and  eyebrows 
black  as  the  raven's  wing;  so  that  in  personal 
graces,  as  in  virtues,  she  fairly  justified  the  raptur- 
ous eulogies  of  all  the  poets  of  her  time.  Thus 
Dryden : 

What  awful  charms  on  her  fair  forehead  sit, 
Dispensing  what  she  never  will  admit; 


AHNE    KILLEGREW.  421 

Pleasing  yet  cold— like  Cynthia's  silver  beam, 
The  people's  wonder,  and  the  poet's  theme! 

She  captivated  hearts  almost  as  fast  as  James  the 
Second  lost  them ; 

And  Envy  did  but  look  on  her  and  died  !# 

Her  fall  from  the  throne  she  so  adorned ;  her  escape 
with  her  infant  son,  under  the  care  of  the  Due  de 
Lauzun ;  f  her  conduct  during  her  retirement  at 
St.  Germains,  with  a  dull  court,  and  a  stupid  big- 
oted husband,  are  all  matters  of  history,  and  might 
have  inspired,  one  would*  think,  better  verses  than 
were  ever  written  upon  her.  Lord  Lansdown 
exclaims,  with  an  enthusiasm  which  was  at  least 
disinterested — 

0  happy  James !  content  thy  mighty  mind ! 
Grudge  not  the  world,  for  still  thy  Queen  is  kind, — 
To  lie  but  at  whose  feet,  more  glory  brings, 
Than  'tis  to  tread  on  sceptres  and  on  kings!  J 

Anne  Killegrew,  who  has  been  immortalized  by 
Dry  den,  in  the  ode,§ 

Thou  youngest  virgin-daughter  of  the  skies ! 

does  not  seem  to  have  possessed  any  talents  or  ac- 
quirements which  would  render  her  very  remark- 

*  Dryden's  Works,  by  Scott,  vol.  xi.  p.  32. 

t  The  Due  de  Lauzun  of  Mademoiselle  de  Montpensier. 

t  Grenville's  Works, — "  Progress  of  Beauty." 

§  "  To  the  pious  memory  of  the  accomplished  young  lady,  Misa 
Anne  Killegrew,  excellent  in  the  two  sister  arts  of  poesy  and 
painting." 


422  POETS    AND    BEAUTIES. 

able  iu  these  days ;  though  in  her  own  time  she 
was  styled  "  a  grace  for  beauty  and  a  muse  for 
wit."  Her  youth,  her  accomplishments,  her  capti- 
vating person,  her  station  at  court,  (as  a  maid  of 
honor  to  Maria  d'Este,  then  Duchess  of  York,)  and 
her  premature  death  at  the  age  of  twenty-four,  all 
conspired  to  render  her  interesting  to  her  contem- 
poraries ;  and  Dryden  has  given  her  a  fame  which 
cannot  die.  The  stanza  in  this  ode,  in  which  the 
poet  for  himself  and  others,  pleads  guilty  of  having 
"  made  prostitute  and  profligate  the  muse," 

Whose  harmony  was  first  ordain' d  above 
For  tongues  of  angels  and  for  hymns  of  love ! 

— the  sudden  turn  in  praise  of  the  young  poetess, 
whose  verse  flowed  pure  as  her  own  mind  and 
heart ;  and  the  burst  of  enthusiasm — 

Let  this  thy  vestal,  heaven!  atone  for  all! 

are  exceeding  beautiful.  His  description  of  her 
skill  in  painting  both  landscape  and  portraits,  would 
answer  for  a  Claude,  or  a  Titian.  We  are  a  little 
disappointed  to  find,  after  all  this  pomp  and  prodi- 
gality of  praise,  that  Anne  Killegrew's  paintings 
were  mediocre ;  and  that  her  poetry  has  sunk,  not 
undeservedly,  into  oblivion.  She  died  of  the  small- 
pox in  1685. 

The  famous  Tom  Killegrew,  jester  (by  courtesy) 
to  Charles  the  Second,  was  her  uncle. 

There  was  also  the  young  Duchess  of  Ormond 
(Lady  Mary  Somerset,  daughter  of  the  Duke  of 


LADY    HYDK.  i28 

Beaufort.)  She  married  into  a  famih  which  had 
been,  tcr  tliree  generations,  the  patronw  and  bene- 
fnc.tors  of  Drvden  ;  and  never  was  patronage  so 
richly  repaid.  To  this  Duchess  of  Ormond,  Dry- 
den  has  dedicated  the  Tale  of  Palemon  and  Arcite, 
in  an  opening  address  full  of  poetry  and  compli- 
ment-;— happily  both  justified  and  merited  by  the 
object. 

Lady  Hyde,  afterwards  Countess  of  Clarendon 
and  Rochester,  was  in  her  time  a  favorite  theme  of 
gay  and  gallant  verse  ;  but  she  maintained  with  her 
extreme  beauty  and  gentleness  of  deportment,  a 
dignity  of  conduct  which  disarmed  scandal,  and 
kept  presumptuous  wits  as  well  as  presumptuous 
fops  at  a  distance.  Lord  Lansdown  has  crowned 
her  with  praise,  very  pointed  and  elegant,  and 
seems  to  have  contrasted  her  at  the  moment,  with 
his  coquettish  Mira,  Lady  Newburgh. 

Others,  by  guilty  artifice  and  arts, 

And  promised  kindness,  practise  on  our  hearts ; 

With  expectation  blow  the  passion  up; 

She  fans  the  fire  without  one  gale  of  hope.* 

Lady  Hyde  was  the  daughter  of  Sir  William 
Leveson  Gower,  (ancestor  to  the  Marquis  of  Staf- 
ford,) and  mother  of  that  Lord  Cornbury,  who  hag 
been  celebrated  by  Pope  and  Thomson. 

The  second  daughter  of  this  lovely  and  amiable 
woman,  Lady  Catherine  Hyde,  was  Prior's  famous 
Kitty, 

*  See  the  lines  on  Lady  Hyde's  picture  in  Granyille's  Poems. 


424  POETS    AND   BEAUTIES. 

Beautiful  and  young, 
And  wild  as  colt  untam'd, 

the  "  female   Phaeton,"  who    obtained    mainmaV 
chariot  for  a  day,  to  set  the  world  on  fire. 

Shall  I  thumb  holy  books,  confin'd 

With  Abigails  forsaken? 
Kitty's  for  other  things  design'd, 

Or  I  am  much  mistaken. 

Must  Lady  Jenny  frisk  about, 

And  visit  with  her  cousins  ? 
At  balls  must  she  make  all  this  rout, 

And  bring  home  hearts  by  dozens  ? 

What  has  she  better,  pray,  than  I? 

What  hidden  charms  to  boast, 
That  all  mankind  for  her  must  die, 

Whilst  I  am  scarce  a  toast  ? 

Dearest  Mamma !  for  once,  let  me 

Unchain'd  my  fortune  try: 
I'll  have  my  Earl  as  well  as  she, 

Or  know  the  reason  why. 

Fondness  prevail' d,  Mamma  gave  way; 

Kitty,  at  heart's  desire, 
Obtain'd  the  chariot  for  a  day, 

And  set  the  world  on  fire ! 

Kitty  not  only  set  the  world  on  fire,  but  more 
than  accomplished  her  magnanimous  resolution  to 
have  an  Earl  as  well  as  her  sister,  Lady  Jenny.* 
She  married  the  Duke  of  Queensbury  :  and  as  thai 
Duchess  of  Queensbury,  who  was  the  friend  and 

*  Lady  Jane  Hyde  married  the  Earl  of  Essex. 


LADY   HYDE.  42ft 

patroness  of  Gay,  is  still  farther  connected  with  the 
history  of  our  poetical  literature.  Pope  paid  a 
compliment  to  her  beauty,  in  a  well-known  couplet, 
which  is  more  refined  in  the  application  than  in  the 
expression  : — 

tf  Queensbury  to  strip  there 's  no  compelling, 
'Tis  from  a  handmaid  we  must  take  a  Helen. 

She  was  an  amiable,  exemplary  woman,  and  pos- 
sessed that  best  and  only  preservative  of  youth  and 
beauty, — a  kind,  cheerful  disposition  and  buoyant 
spirits.  When  she  walked  at  the  coronation  of 
George  the  Third,  she  was  still  so  strikingly  attrac- 
tive, that  Horace  Walpole  handed  to  her  the  fol- 
lowing impromptu,  written  on  a  leaf  of  his  pocket- 
book, 

To  many  a  Kitty,  Love,  his  car, 

Would  for  a  day  engage; 

But  Prior's  Kitty,  ever  fair, 

Obtained  it  for  an  age ! 

She  is  also  alluded  to  in  Thomson's  Seasons. 

And  stooping  thence  to  Ham's  embowering  walks, 
Beneath  whose  shades,  in  spotless  peace  retir'd, 
With  her  the  pleasing  partner  of  his  heart, 
The  worthy  Queensbury  yet  laments  his  Gay. 

Summer. 

The  Duchess  of  Queensbury  died  in  1777.* 

•»  Oil  the  death  of  Gay,  Swift  had  addressed  to  the  Duchess  a 
tetter  of  condolence  in  his  usual  cynical  style.  The  Duchess  re- 
plied with  feeling — "  I  differ  from  you,  that  it  is  possible  to  com- 
fort one'  \  self  for  the  loss  of  friends,  as  one  does  for  the  loss  of 
^inney.  1  think  I  could  live  on  very  little,  nor  think  myself 


i2G  POETS   AND   BEAUTIES. 

Two  other  women,  who  lived  about  the  sam« 
time,  possess  a  degree  of  celebrity  which,  though 
but  a  sound — a  name — rather  than  a  feeling  or  an 
interest,  must  not  pass  unnoticed ;  more  particu- 
larly as  they  will  farther  illustrate  the  theory  we 
have  hitherto  kept  in  view.  I  allude  to  "  Gran- 
ville's  Mira,"  and  "  Prior's  Chloe." 

For  the  fame  of  the  first,  a  single  line  of  Pope 
has  done  more  than  all  the  verses  of  Lord  Lans~ 
down  :  it  is  in  the  Epistle  to  Jervas  the  painter — 

With  Zeuxis'  Helen,  thy  Bridge  water  vie, 
And  these  be  sung,  till  Granville's  Mira  die! 

Now,  "  Granville's  Mira  "  would  have  been  dead 
long  ago,  had  she  not  been  preserved  in  some  ma- 
terial more  precious  and  lasting  than  the  poetry  of 
her  noble  admirer :  she  shines,  however,  "  em- 
balmed in  the  lucid  amber  "  of  Pope's  lines  ;  and 
we  not  only  wonder  how  she  got  there,  but  are 
tempted  to  inquire  who  she  was,  or  if  ever  she  was 
at  all. 

Granville's  Mira  was  Lady  Frances  Brudenel, 
third  daughter  of  the  Earl  of  Cardigan.  She  was 
married  very  young  to  Livingstone,  Earl  of  New- 
burgh  ;  and  Granville's  first  introduction  to  her 
must  have  taken  place  soon  after  her  marriage,  in 
1690;  he  was  then  about  twenty,  already  distin- 

poor,  nor  be  thought  so ;  but  a  little  friendship  could  never  sat- 
isfy  one.  In  almost  every  thing  but  friends,  another  of  the  sama 
name  may  do  as  well;  but  friend  is"  more  than  a  name,  if  it  be 
any  thing." — This  is  true;  but,  as  Touchstone  says — "  much  fin 
toe  In  i/7" 


MIRA.  427 

ptiished  for  that  elegance  of  mind  and  manner, 
which  has  handed  him  down  to  us  as  "  Granville 
the  polite."  He  joined  the  crowd  of  Lady  New- 
burgh's  adorers,  and  as  some  praise,  and  some 
lucky  lines  had  persuaded  him  that  he  was  a  poet, 
he  chose  to  consecrate  his  verse  to  this  fashionable 
beauty. 

In  all  the  mass  of  poetry,  or  rather  rhyme,  ad- 
dressed to  Lady  Newburgh,  there  is  not  a  passage, 
— not  a  single  line  which  can  throw  an  interest 
round  her  character ;  all  we  can  make  out  is,  that 
she  was  extremely  beautiful ;  that  she  sang  well ; 
and  that  she  was  a  most  finished,  heartless  coquette. 
Thus  her  lover  has  pictured  her : 

Lost  in  a  labyrinth  of  doubts  and  joys, 

Whom  now  her  smiles  revived,  her  scorn  destroys ; 

She  will,  and  she  will  not,  she  grants,  denies, 

Consents,  retracts ;  advances,  and  then  flies. 

Approving  and  rejecting  in  a  breath, 

Now  proffering  mercy,  now  presenting  death ! 

She  led  Granville  on  from  year  to  year,  till  the 
death  of  her  first  husband,  Lord  Newburgh.  He 
then  presented  himself  among  t>-3  suitors  for  her 
hand,  confiding,  it  seems,  in  former  encouragement 
or  promises  ;  but  Lady  Newburgh  had  played  the 
same  despicable  game  with  others ;  she  had  no 
objection  to  the  poetical  admiration  of  an  accom- 
plished young  man  of  fashion,  who  had  rendered 
her  an  object  of  universal  attention,  by  his  deter- 
mined pursuit  and  tuneful  homage,  and  who  was 


428  POETS   AND   BEAUTIES. 

then  the  admired  of  all  women.     She  thought,  like 
the  coquette,  in  one  of  Congreve's  comedies, 

If  there's  delight  in  love,  'tis  when  I  see 

The  heart  that  others  bleed  for — bleed  for  me ! 

But  when  free  to  choose,  she  rejected  him  and 
married  Lord  Bellow.  Her  coquettry  with  Gran- 
ville  had  been  so  notorious,  that  this  marriage 

O 

caused  a  great  sensation  at  the  time  and  no  little 
scandal. 

Rumor  is  loud,  and  every  voice  proclaims 
Her  violated  faith  and  conscious  flames. 

The  only  catastrophe,  however,  which  her  false- 
hood occasioned,  was  the  production  of  a  long 
elegy,  in  imitation  of  Theocritus,  which  concludes 
Lord  Lansdown's  amatory  effusions.  He  after- 
wards married  Lady  Anne  Villiers,  with  whom  he 
lived  happily  :  after  a  union  of  more  than  twenty 
years,  they  died  within  a  few  days  of  each  other, 
and  they  were  buried  together. 

Lady  Newburgh  left  a  daughter  by  her  first  hus- 
band,* and  a  son  and  daughter  by  Lord  Bellew; 
she"  lived  to  survive  her  beauty,  to  lose  her  admir- 
ers, and  to  be  the  object  in  her  old  age  of  the  most 
gross  and  unmeasured  satire  ;  the  flattery  of  a  lover 
elevated  her  to  a  divinity,  and  the  malbe  of  a  .wit, 
whom  she  had  ill-treated,  degraded  her  into  a  fury 
and  a  hag — with  about  as  much  reason. 

*  Charlotte,  Countess  of  Newburgh  in  her  own  right,  frrm 
whom  the  present  Earl  of  Newburgh  is  descended. 


PRIOR'S  CHLOE.  429 

Prior's  Chloe,  the  "  nut-brown  maid,"  was  taken 
from  the  opposite  extremity  of  society,  but  could 
scarce  have  been  more  worthless.  She  was  a  com- 
mon woman  of  the  lowest  description,  whose  real 
name  was,  I  believe,  Nancy  Derham, — but  it  is  not 
4  matter  of  much  importance. 

Prior's  attachment  to  this  woman,  however  un- 
merited, was  very  sincere.  For  her  sake  he  quitted 
the  high  society  into  which  his  talents  and  his  polit- 
ical connections  had  introduced  him ;  and  for  her, 
he  neglected,  as  he  tells  us — 

Whatever  the  world  thinks  wise  and  grave, 
Ambition,  business,  friendship,  news, 
My  useful  books  and  serious  muse, 

to  bury  himself  with  her  in  some  low  tavern  for 
weeks  together.  Once,  when  they  quarrelled,  she 
ran  away  and  carried  off'  his  plate ;  but  even  this 
could  no*  shake  his  constancy  :  at  his  death  he  left 
her  all  he  possessed,  and  she — his  Chloe — at  whose 
command  and  in  whose  honor  he  wrote  his  "  Henry 
and  Emma," — married  a  cobbler!*  Such  was 
Prior's  Chloe. 

Is  it  surprising  that  the  works  of  a  poet  once  so 
popular,  should  now  be  banished  from  a  lady's 
library  ? — a  banishment  from  which  all  his  sprightly 
wit  cannot  redeem  him.  But  because  Prior's  love 
for  this  i^oman  was  real,  and  that  he  was  really  a 
man  of  feeling  and  genius,  though  debased  by  low 
ind  irregular  habits,  there  are  some  swe^t  touches 

*  Spence's  Anecdotes. 


SO  POETS   AND   BEAUTIES. 

scattered  through  his  poetry,  which  show  how 
strong  was  the  illusion  in  his  fancy : — as  in  "  Chloe 
Jealous." 

Reading  thy  verse,  "  who  cares,"  said  I, 
•'  If  here  or  there  his  gla?ices  flew? 

^  rree  forever  be  his  eye, 
Whose  heart  to  me  is  always  true ! " 

laid  in  his  "  Answer  to  Chloe  Jealous." 

0  when  I  am  wearied  with  wandering  all  day 
To  thee,  my  delight,  in  the  evening  I  come. 

No  matter  what  beauties  I  saw  in  my  way, 
They  were  but  my  visits,  but  thou  art  my  home ! 

The   address   to  Chloe,  with  which  the  "Nut 
brown  Maid  "  commences, 

Thou,  to  whose  eyes  I  bend,  &c. 

will  ever  be  admired,  and  the  poems  will  always 
find  readers  among  the  young  and  gentle-hearted 
who  have  not  yet  learned  to  be  critics  or  to  trem- 
ble at  the  fiat  of  Dr.  Johnson.  It  is  perhaps  ono 
of  the  most  popular  poems  in  the  language. 


STELLA    AND   VANESSA.  431 

CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

STELLA  AND  VANESSA. 

Ii  is  difficult  to  consider  Swift  as  a  poet.  So 
many  unaraiable,  disagreeable,  unpoetical  ideas  are 
connected  with  his  name,  that,  great  as  he  was  in 
lame  and  intellectual  vigor,  he  seems  as  misplaced  in 
the  temple  of  the  muses  as  one  of  his  own  yahoos. 
But  who  has  not  heard  of  "  Swift's  Stella  ?  "  and 
of  Cadenus  and  Vanessa  ?  Though  all  will  confess 
that  the  two  devoted  women,  who  fell  victims  to  his 
barbarous  selfishness,  and  whose  names  are  eter- 
nally linked  with  the  history  of  our  literature,  are 
far  more  interesting,  from  their  ill-bestowed,  ill- 
requited  and  passionate  attachment  to  him,  than 
by  any  thing  he  ever  sung  or  said  of  1hem.*  Nay, 
his  most  elaborate,  and  his  most  admired  poem — 
the  avowed  history  of  one  of  his  attachments — with 
its  insipid  tawdry  fable,  its  conclusion  in  which 
nothing  is  concluded,  and  the  inferences  we  are  left 
to  draw  from  it,  would  have  given  but  an  ignomin- 

*  As  Swift  said  truly  and  wittily  of  himself : 
As  when  a  lofty  pile  is  raised, 
We  never  hear  the  workmen  praised, 
Who  bring  the  lime  or  place  the  stones, 
But  all  admire  Inigo  Jones  ; 
So  if  this  pile  of  scattered  rhymes 
Should  be  approved  in  after-tunes, 
If  it  both  pleases  and  endures, 
The  merit  and  the  praise  are  yours  ! —  Verses  U>  Stella 


432  SWIFT. 

ious  celebrity  to  poor  Vanessa,  if  truth  and  time, 
and  her  own  sweet  nature,  had  not  redeemed  her. 

I  pass  over  Swift's  early  attachment  to  Jane 
Waryng,  whom  he  deserted  after  a  seven  years' 
engagement ;  she  is  not  in  any  way  connected  with 
his  literary  history, — and  what  became  of  her  after- 
wards is  not  known.  He  excused  himself  by  some 
pitiful  subterfuges  about  fortune ;  but  it  appears, 
from  a  comparison  of  dates,  that  the  occasion  of  his 
breaking  off  with  her,  was  his  rising  partiality  for 
another. 

When  Swift  was  an  inmate  of  Sir  William  Tem- 
ple's family  at  Moor  Park,  he  met  with  Esther 
Johnson,  who  appears  to  have  been  a  kind  of 
humble  companion  to  Sir  William's  niece,  Miss 
Gilford.  She  is  said  by  some  to  have  been  the 
daughter  of  Sir  William's  steward ;  by  others  we 
are  told  that  her  father  was  a  London  merchant, 
who  had  failed  in  business.  This  was  the  inter- 
esting and  ill-fated  woman,  since  renowned  as 
"  Swift's  Stella." 

She  was  then  a  blooming  girl  of  fifteen,  with 
silky  black  hair,  brilliant  eyes,  and  delicate  fea- 
tures. Her  disposition  was  gentle  and  affection- 
ate; and  she  had  a  mind -of  no  common  order. 
Swift  sometimes  employed  his  leisure  in  instructing 
Sir  William's  niece,  and  Stella  was  the  companion 
of  her  studies.  Her  beauty,  talents,  and  docility, 
interested  her  preceptor,  who,  though  considerably 
older  than  herself,  was  in  the  vigor  of  his  life  and 
intellectual  powers;  and  she  repaid  this  interest 


STELLA    AND    VANESSA.  483 

with  all  the  idolatry  of  a  young  unpractised  heart, 
mingled  with  a  gratitude  and  reverence  almost 
filial.  When  he  took  possession  of  his  living  in 
Ireland,  he  might  have  married  her ;  for  she  loved 
him,  and  he  knew  it.  She  was  perfectly  indepen- 
dent of  any  family  ties,  and  had  a  small  property 
of  her  own  :  but  what  were  really  his  views  or  his 
intentions  it  is  impossible  to  guess;  nor  are  the 
reasons  of  that  most  extraordinary  arrangement, 
by  which  he  contrived  to  bind  this  devoted  crea- 
ture to  him  for  life,  and  to  enslave  her  heart  and 
soul  to  him  forever,  without  assuming  the  character 
either  of  a  husband  or  a  lover.  He  persuaded  her 
to  leave  England;  and,  under  the  sanction  and 
protection  of  a  respectable  elderly  woman  named 
Dingley,  often  alluded  to  in  his  humorous  poems, 
to  take  up  her  residence  near  him  at  Laracor. 
Subsequently,  when  he  became  Dean  of  St.  Pat- 
rick's, she  had  a  lodging  in  Dublin.  He  was  ac- 
customed to  spend  part  of  every  day  in  her  society, 
but  never  without  the  presence  of  a  third  person ; 
and  when  he  was  absent,  the  two  ladies  took  pos- 
session of  his  residence,  and  occupied  it  till  his 
return. 

Two  years  after  her  removal  to  Ireland,  and 
when  she  was  in  her  twentieth  year,  Stella  was 
addressed  by  a  young  clergyman,  whose  name  was 
Tisdal;  and  sensible  of  the  humiliating  and  equiv- 
ocal situation  in  which  she  was  placed,  and  unable 
to  bring  Swift  to  any  explanation  of  his  views  or. 
sentiments,  she  appears  to  have  been  inclined  to 
28 


434  SWIFT. 

favor  the  addresses  of  her  new  admirer.  He  pro- 
posed in  form  ;  but  Swift,  without  in  any  way  com- 
mitting himself,  contrived  to  prevent  the  marriage. 
Stella  found  herself  precisely  in  the  same  situation 
as  before,  and  every  year  increased  his  influence 
over  her  young  and  gentle  spirit,  as  habit  con- 
firmed and  strengthened  the  bonds  of  a  first  affec- 
tion. She  lived  on  in  the  hope  that  he  would  at 
length  marry  her ;  bearing  his  sullen  outbrcakings 
of  temper,  soothing  his  morbid  misanthropy,  cheer- 
ing and  adorning  his  life;  and  giving  herself 
every  day  fresh  claims  to  his  love,  compassion,  and 
gratitude,  by  her  sufferings,  her  virtues,  her  patient 
gentleness,  and  her  exclusive  devotion ; — and  all 

B 

availed  not !  During  this  extraordinary  connection, 
Swift  was  accustomed  to  address  her  in  verse. 
Some  of  these  poems,  though  worthless  as  poetry, 
derive  interest  from  the  beauty  of  her  character, 
and  from  that  concentrated  vigor  of  expression 
which  was  the  characteristic  of  all  he  wrote  ;  as  in 
this  descriptive  passage  : — 

Her  hearers  are  amazed  from  whence 
Proceeds  that  fund  of  wit  and  sense, 
Which,  though  her  modesty  would  shr^d, 
Breaks  like  the  sun  behind  a  cloud ; 
While  gracefulness  its  art  conceals, 
And  yet  through  every  motion  steals, 
Say,  Stella,  was  Prometheus  blind, 
And  forming  you,  mistook  y;mr  kin<?  " 
No ;  'twas  for  you  alone  he  stole 
The  fire  that  forms  a  manly  soul ; 
Then,  to  complete  it  every  way, 


STELLA    ANU    VANESSA.  435 

lie  moulded  it  with  female  clay: 
To  that  you  owe  the  nobler  flame, 
To  this  the  beauty  of  your  frame. 

He  compliments  her  sincerity  and  firmness  of 
principle  in  four  nervous  lines : 

Ten  thousand  oaths  upon  record 
Are  not  so  sacred  as  her  word ! 
The  world  shall  in  its  atoms  end 
Ere  Stella  can  deceive  a  friend! 

Her  tender  attention  to  him  in  sickness  and 
Buffering,  is  thus  described,  with  a  tolerable  insight 
into  his  own  character. 

To  her  I  owe 

That  I  these  pains  can  undergo; 
She  tends  me  like  an  humble  slave, 
And,  when  indecently  I  rave, 
When  out  my  brutish  passions  break, 
With  gall  in  every  word  I  speak, 
She,  with  soft  speech,  my  anguish  cheers, 
Or  melts  my  passions  down  with  tears : 
Although  'tis  easy  to  descry 
She  wants  assistance  more  than  I, 
She  seems  to  feel  my  pains  alone, 
And  is  a  jStoic  to  her  own. 
Where,  among  scholars,  can  you  find 
So  soft,  and  yet  so  firm  a  mind  ? 

These  lines,  dated  March,  1724,  are  the  more 
reBiarkable,  because  they  refer  to  a  period  when 
Stella  had  much  to  forgive  ; — when  she  had  just 
been  injured,  in  the  tenderest  point,  by  the  man 
who  owed  to  her  tenderness  and  forbearance  all 


436  SWIFT. 

the  happiness  that  his  savage  temper  allowed  him 
to  taste  on  earth. 

As  Stella  passed  much  of  her  time  in  solitude, 
she  read  a  great  deal.  She  received  Swift's  friends, 
many  of  whom  were  clever  and  distinguished  men 
particularly  Shexidau  and  Delany;  and  on  his 
public  days  she  dined  as  a  guest  at  his  table,  where, 
says  his  biographer,*  "  the  modesty  of  her  man- 
ners, the  sweetness  of  her  disposition,  and  the  bril- 
liance of  her  wit,  rendered  her  the  general  object 
of  admiration  to  all  who  were  so  happy  as  to  have 
a  place  in  that  enviable  society." 

Johnson  says  that,  "  if  Swift's  ideas  of  women 
were  such  as  he  generally  exhibits,  a  very  little 
sense  in  a  lady  would  enrapture,  and  a  very  little 
virtue  astonish  him;"  and  thinks,  therefore,  that 
Stella's  supremacy  might  be  "  only  local  and  com- 
parative ; "  but  it  is  not  the  less  true,  that  she  was 
beheld  with  tenderness  and  admiration  by  all  who 
approached  her ;  and  whether  she  could  spell  or 
not,  f  she  could  certainly  write  very  pretty  verses, 
considering  whom  she  had  chosen  for  her  model : — 
for  instance,  the  following  little  effusion,  in  reply 
to  a  compliment  addressed  to  her : 

If  it  be  true,  celestial  powers, 
That  you  have  formed  me  fair, 

And  yet,  in  all  my  vuuest  hours, 
My  mind  has  been  my  care; 

•  Sheridan's  Life  of  Swift. 

t  Dr.  Johnson,  who  allows  Stella  to  have  been  ''virtuous, 
beautiful,  and  elegant,"  says  she  could  not  spell  her  own  Ian 
fuage :  in  those  days  few  women  could  spell  accurately. 


8TEI  LA    AND    VANESSA.  437 

Then,  in  return,  I  beg  this  grace, 

As  you  were  ever  kind, 
What  envious  time  takes  from  my  face, 

Bestow  upon  my  mind ! 

She  had  continued  to  live  on  in  this  strange  un« 
definable  state  of  dependence  for  fourteen  yearss 
u  in  pale  contented  sort  of  discontent,"  though  her 
spirit  was  so  borne  down  by  the  habitual  awe  in 
which  he  held  her,  that  she  never  complained — 
when  the  suspicion  that  a  younger  and  fairer  rival 
had  usurped  the  heart  she  possessed,  if  not  the 
rights  she  coveted,  added  the  tortures  of  jealousy 
to  those  of  lingering  suspense  and  mortified  affec- 
tion. 

A  new  attachment  had,  in  fact,  almost  entirely 
estranged  Swift  from  her,  and  from  his  home. 
While  in  London,  from  1710  to  1712,  he  was  ac- 
customed to  visit  at  the  house  of  Mrs.  Vanhomrigh, 
and  became  so  intimate,  that  during  his  attendance 
on  the  ministry  at  that  time,  he  was  accustomed  to 
change  his  wig  and  gown,  and  drink  his  coffee 
there  almost  daily.  Mrs.  Vanhomrigh  had  two 
daughters:  the  eldest,  Esther,  was  destined  to  be 
the  second  victim  of  Swift's  detestable  selfishness, 
and  become  celebrated  under  the  name  of  Va- 
nessa. 

She  was  a  character  altogether  different  from 
that  of  Stella.  Not  quite  so  beautiful  in  person, 
but  with  all  the  freshness  and  vivacity  of  youth — 
(she  was  not  twenty,)  and  adding  to  the  advan- 
tages of  polished  manners  and  lively  talents,  a 


438  SWIFT. 

frank  confiding  temper,  and  a  capacity  for  strong 
affections.  She  was  rich,  admired,  happy,  and 
diffusing  happiness.  Swift,  as  I  have  said,  visited 
at  the  house  of  her  mother.  His  age,  his  celebrity, 
his  character  as  a  clergyman,  gave  him  privileges 
of  which  he  availed  himself.  He  was  pleased  with 
Miss  Vanhomrigh's  talents,  and  undertook  to  direct 
her  studies.  She  was  ignorant  of  the  ties  which 
bound  him  to  the  unhappy  Stella;  and  charmed 
by  his  powers  of  conversation,  dazzled  by  his  fame, 
won  and  flattered  by  his  attentions,  surrendered 
her  heart  and  soul  to  him  before  she  was  aware ; 
and  her  love  partaking  of  the  vivacity  of  her 
character,  not  only  absorbed  every  other  feeling, 
but,  as  she  expressed  it  herself,  "  became  blended 
with  every  atom  of  her  frame."  * 

Swift,  among  his  other  lessons,  took  pains  to 
impress  her  with  his  own  favorite  maxims  (it  had 
been  well  for  both  had  h'e  acted  up  to  them  him- 
self)— "  to  speak  the  truth  on  all  occasions,  and  at 
every  hazard :  and  to  do  what  seemed  right  in 
itself,  without  regard  to  the  opinions  or  customs  of 
the  world."  He  appears  also  to  have  insinuated 
the  idea,  that  the  disparity  of  their  age  and  fortune 
rendered  him  distrustful  of  his  own  powers  of 
pleasing/}-  She  was  thus  led  on,  by  his  open  ad- 
miration, and  her  own  frank  temper,  to  betray 
the  state  of  her  affections,  and  proffered  to  him 

*  See  her  Letters. 

•f  See  some  very  poor  verses  found  in  Miss  Van'aomrigh's  desk 
Mil  inserted  in  his  poems,  vol.  x.  p.  14. 


STELLA    AND    VANESSA.  489 

her  hand  and  fortune.  He  had  not  sufficient 
humanity,  honor,  or  courage,  to  disclose  the  truth 
of  his  situation,  but  replied  to  the  avowal  of  thia 
innocent  and  warm-hearted  girl,  first  in  a  tone  of 
raillery,  and  then  by  an  equivocal  offer  of  ever- 
.asting  friendship. 
The  scene  is  thus  given  in  Cadenus  and  Vanessa, 

Vanessa,  though  by  Pallas  taught, 

By  love  invulnerable  thought, 

Searching  in  books  for  wisdom' d  aid, 

Was  in  the  very  search  betrayed. 

*  *     '  *  * 

Cadenus  many  things  had  writ; 

Vanessa  much  esteemed  his  wit, 

And  call'd  for  his  poetic  works. 

Meantime  the  boy  in  secret  lurks ; 

And,  while  the  book  was  in  her  hand 

The  urchin  from  his  private  stand 

Took  aim,  and  shot  with  all  his  strength 

A  dart  of  such  prodigious  length, 

It  pierced  the  feeble  volume  through, 

And  deep  tranfix'd  her  bosom  too. 

Some  lines,  more  moving  than  the  rest, 

Stuck  to  the  point  that  pierced  her  breast, 

And  borne  directly  to  the  heart, 

With  pains  unknown,  increas'd  her  smart. 

Vanessa,  not  in  years  a  score, 

Dreams  of  a  gown  of  forty-four; 

Imaginary  charms  can  find, 

In  eyes  with  reading  almost  blind. 

Cadenus  now  no  more  appears 

Declin'd  in  health,  advanc'd  in  years; 

She  fancies  music  in  his  tongue, 

Nor  farther  looks,  but  thinks  him  young. 


440        .  SWIFT. 

Vanessa  is  then  made  to  disclose  her  tenderness 
The  expressions  and  the  sentiments  are  probably 
as  true  to  the  facts  as  was  consistent  with  the 
rhyme :  but  how  cold,  how  flat,  how  prosaic !  no 
emotion  falters  in  the  lines — not  a  feelinn-  blushes 

O 

through  them ! — as  if  an  ardent  but  delicate  and 
gentle  girl  would  ever  have  made  a  first  avowal  of 
passion  in  this  chop-logic  style — 

"  Now,"  said  the  Nymph,  "  to  let  you  see 

My  actions  with  your  rules  agree; 

That  I  can  vulgar  forms  despise, 

And  have  no  secrets  to  disguise; 

I  knew,  by  what  you  said  and  writ, 

How  dangerous  things  were  men  of  wit ; 

You  caution'd  me  against  their  charms, 

But  never  gave  me  equal  arms ; 

Your  lessons  found  the  weakest  part, 

Aim'd  at  the  head,  but  reached  the  heart  I" 

Cadenus  felt  within  him  rise 

Shame,  disappointment,  guilt,  surprise,  &c. 

***** 

It  is  possible  he  might  have  felt  thus  ;  .and  yet  the 
excess  of  his  surprise  and  disappointment  on  the 
occasion,  may  be  doubted.  He  makes,  however,  a 
rery  candid  confession  of  his  own  vanity. 

Cadenus,  to  his  grief  and  shame, 
Conld  scarce  oppose  Vanessa's  flame; 
And  though  her  arguments  were  strong, 
At  least  could  hardly  wish  them  wrong: 
Howe'er  it  came,  he  could  not  tell, 
But  sure  she  never  talked  so  well. 
His  pride  began  to  interpose : 


BTELLA   AND   VANESSA.  441 

Preferred  before  a  crowd  of  beaux! 
So  bright  a  nymph  to  come  unsought ! 
Such  wonder  by  his  merit  wrought ! 
'Tis  merit  must  with  her  prevail! 
He  never  knew  her  judgment  fail. 
She  noted  all  she  ever  read, 
And  had  a  most  discerning  head! 

The  scene  continues — he  rallies  her,  and  affects  to 
think  it  all 

Just  what  coxcombs  call  a  bite, 

(such  is  his  elegant  phrase.)  He  then  offers  her 
friendship  instead  of  love  :  the  lady  replies  with 
very  pertinent  arguments ;  and  finally,  the  tale  is 
concluded  in  this  ambiguous  passage,  in  which  we 
must  allow  that  great  room  is  left  for  scandal,  for 
doubt,  and  for  curiosity. 

But  what  success  Vanessa  met 

Is  to  the  world  a  secret  yet ; — 

Whether  the  nymph,  to  please  her  swain, 

Talks  in  a  high  romantic  strain, 

Or  whether  he  at  last  descends 

To  act  with  less  seraphic  ends ; 

Or  to  compound  the  business,  whether 

They  temper  love  and  books  together; 

Must  never  to  mankind  be  told, 

Nor  shall  the  conscious  Muse  unfold. 

Such  is  the  story  of  this  celebrated  poem.  The 
passion,  the  circumstances,  the  feelings  are  real, 
and  it  contains  lines  of  great  power ;  and  yet, 
assuredly,  the  perusal  of  it  never  conveyed  one 


442  SWIFT. 

emotion  to  the  reader's  heart,  except  of  indignation 
against  the  writer ;  not  a  spark  of  poetry,  fancy, 
or  pathos,  breathes  throughout.  We  have  a  dull 
mythological  fable,  in  which  Venus  and  the  Graces 
descend  to  clothe  Vanessa  in  all  the  attractions  of 
her  sex : — 

The  Graces  next  would  act  their  part, 
And  showed  but  little  of  their  art; 
Their  work  was  half  already  done, 
The  child  with  native  beauty  shone, 
.  The  outward  form  no  help  required ; — 
Each,  breathing  on  her  thrice,  inspired 
That  gentle,  soft,  engaging  air, 
Which  in  old  times  advanced  the  fair. 

And  Pallas  is  tricked  by  the  wiles  of  Venus  into 
doing  her  part. — The  Queen  of  Learning 

Mistakes  Vanessa  for  a  boy ; 
Then  sows  within  her  tender  mind 
Seeds  long  unknown  to  womankind, 
For  manly  bosoms  chiefly  fit, — 
The  seeds  of  knowledge,  judgment,  wit. 
Her  soul  was  suddenly  endued 
With  justice,  truth,  and  fortitude, — 
With  honor,  which  no  breath  can  stain, 
Which  malice  must  attack  in  vain ; 
With  open  heart  and  bounteous  hand,  &c. 

The  nymph  thus  accomplished  is  feared  by  the 
men  and  hated  by  the  women,  and  Swift  has 
shown  his  utter  want  of  heart  and  good  taste,  by 
making  his  homage  to  the  woman  he  loved,  a 
vehicle  for  the  bitterest  satire  on  the  rest  of  her 


8TE1  LA    AND    VANESSA.  443 

»ex.  What  right  had  he  to  accuse  us  of  a  universal 
preference  for  mere  coxcombs, — he  who,  through 
the  sole  power  of  his  wit  and  intellect,  had  inspired 
with  the  most  passionate  attachment  two  lovely 
women  not  half  his  own  age  ?  Be  it  remembered, 
that  while  Swift  was  playing  the  Abelard  with 
such  effect,  he  was  in  his  forty-fifth  year,  and 
(hough 

He  moved  and  bowed,  and  talked  with  so  much  grace 
Nor  showed  the  parson  in  his  gait  or  face,* 

he  was  one  of  the  ugliest  men  in  existence, — -of  a 
bilious,  saturnine  complexion,  and  a  most  forbidding 
countenance. 

The  poem  of  Cadenus  and  Vanessa  was  written 
immediately  on  his  return  to  Ireland  and  to  Stella, 
(where  he  describes  himself  devoured  by  melan- 
choly and  regret,)  and  sent  to  Vanessa.  Her 
passion  and  her  inexperience  seem  to  have  blinded 
her  to  what  was  humiliating  to  herself  in  this  poem, 
and  left  her  sensible  only  to  the  admiration  it  ex- 
pressed, and  the  hopes  it  conveyed.  She  wrote 
him  the  most  impassioned  letters ;  and  he  replied 
in  a  style  which,  without  committing  himself,  kept 
alive  all  her  tenderness,  and  riveted  his  influence 
wer  her. 

Meanwhile,  what  became  of  Stella  ?  Too  quick- 
sighted  not  to  perceive  the  difference  in  Swift's 
manner,  pining  under  his  neglect,  and  struck  to 
\he  heart  by  jealousy,  grief,  and  resentment,  hei 

*"  The  Axithor  on  himself,"  (Swift's  Poems.) 


444  SWIFT 

health  gave  way.  His  pitiful  resolve  never  to  see 
her  alone,  precluded  all  complaint  or  explanation 
The  Mrs.  Dingley  who  had  been  chosen  for  her 
companion,  was  merely  calculated  to  save  appear- 
ances ; — respectable,  indeed,  in  point  of  reputation, 
but  selfish,  narrow-minded,  and  weak.  Thus  aban- 
doned to  sullen,  silent  sorrow,  the  unhappy  Stella 
fell  into  an  alarming  state ;  and  her  destroyer  was 
at  length  roused  to  some  remorse,  by  the  daily 
spectacle  of  the  miserable  wreck  he  had  caused. 
He  commissioned  his  friend  Dr.  Ashe,  "  to  learn 
the  secret  cause  of  that  dejection  of  spirits  which 
had  so  visibly  preyed  on  her  health  ;  and  to  know 
whether  it  was  by  any  means  in  his  power  to 
remove  it  ?  "  She  replied,  "  that  the  peculiarity 
of  her  circumstances,  and  her  singular  connection 
with  Swift  for  many  years,  had  given  great  occasion 
for  scandal;  that  she  had  learned  to  bear  this 
patiently,  hoping  that  all  such  reports  would  be 
effaced  by  marriage  ;  but  she  now  saw,  with  deep 
grief,  that  his  behaviour  was  totally  changed  and 
that  a  cold  indifference  had  succeeded  to  the 
warmest  professions  of  eternal  affection.  That  the 
necessary  consequences  would  be  an  indelible  stain 
fixed  on  her  character,  and  the  loss  of  her  good 
name,  which  was  dearer  to  her  than  life."* 

Swift   answered   that  in   order  to    satisfy  Miss 

Johnson's  scruples,  and  relieve  her  mind,  he  was 

ready   to    go    through    the    mere    ceremony    of 

marriage  with  her,  on  two  conditions ; — first,  thai! 

*  Sheridan's  Life  of  Swift,  p.  316. 


STELLA    AND   VANESSA  440 

should  live  separately  exactly  as  they  did 
before; — secondly  that  it  should  be  kept  a  pro- 
found secret  from  all  the  world.*  To  these  con- 
ditions, however  hard  and  humiliating,  she  was 
obliged  to  submit:  and  the  ceremony  was  per- 
formed privately  by  Dr.  Ashe,  in  1716.  This 
nominal  marriage  spared  her  at  least  some  of  the 
torments  of  jealousy,  by  rendering  a  union  with 
her  rival  impossible. 

Yet,  within  a  year  afterwards,  we  find  this  ill- 
fated  rival,  the  yet  more  unhappy  Vanessa, — more 
unhappy  because  endued  by  nature  with  quicker 
passions,  and  far  less  fortitude  and  patience, — fol- 
lowing Swift  to  Ireland.  She  had  a  plausible 
pretext  for  this  journey,  being  heiress  to  a  con- 
siderable property  at  Celbridge,  about  twelve 
miles  from  Dublin,  on  which  she  came  to  reside 
with  her  sister  ;f  but  her  real  inducement  was  her 

*  How  pertinaciously  Swift  adhered  to  these  conditions,  is 
proved  by  the  fact,  that  after  the  ceremony,  he  never  saw  her 
alone ;  and  that  several  years  after,  when  she  was  in  a  dangerous 
state  of  health,  and  he  was  writing  to  a  friend  about  providing 
for  her  comforts,  he  desires  "  that  she  might  not  be  brought  to 
the  Deanery -house  on  any  account,  as  it  was  a  very  improper 
place  for  her  to  breathe  her  last  in.'1 — Sheridan^s  Life,  p.  356. 

t  "  Marley  Abbey,  near  Celbridge,  where  Miss  Vanhomrigh  ro- 
sided,  is  built  much  in  the  form  of  a  real  cloister,  especially  in 
Its  external  appearance.  An  aged  man,  (upwards  of  ninety,  by 
his  own  account,)  showed  the  grounds  to  my  correspondent,  fie 
fras  the  son  of  Mrs.  Vanhomrigh's  gardener,  and  used  to  work 
with  his  father  in  the  garden  when  a  boy.  He  remembered  the 
unfortunate  Vanessa  well ;  and  his  account  of  her  corresponded 
with  the  usual  description  of  her  person,  especial, y  a?  tf  hei 
tmbonpo.nt.  He  said  she  went  seldom  abroad,  and  saw  littto 


446  SWIFT. 

unconquerable  love  for  him.  Nothing  could  b« 
more  mal  apropos  to  Swift  than  her  arrival  in 
Dublin  :  placed  between  two  women,  thus  devoted 
to  him,  his  perplexity  was  not  greater  than  his 
heartless  duplicity  deserved :  nothing  could  ex- 
tricate him  but  the  simple  but  desperate  expedient 
of  disclosing  the  trith,  and  this  he  could  not  or 
would  not  do :  regardless  of  the  sacred  ties  which 
now  bound  him  to  Stella,  he  continued  to  corres- 
pond with  Vanessa  and  to  visit  her ;  but  "  the 
whole  course  of  this  correspondence  precludes  the 
idea  of  a  guilty  intimacy."*  She,  whose  passion 
was  as  pure  as  it  was  violent  and  exclusive,  asked 
but  to  be  his  wife.  She  would  have  flung  down 

company;  her  constant  amusement  was  reading,  or  walking  in 
the  garden.  Yet,  according  to  this  authority,  her  society  was 
courted  by  several  families  in  the  neighbourhood,  who  visited  her, 
notwithstanding  her  seldom  returning  that  attention;  and  he 
added,  that  her  manners  interested  every  one  who  knew  her,— 
out  she  avoided  company,  and  was  always  melancholy  save  when 
Dean  Swift  was  there,  and  then  she  seemed  happy.  The  garden 
was  to  an  uncommon  degree  crowded  with  laurels.  The  old  man 
said,  that  when  Miss  Vanhomrigh  expected  the  Dean,  she  always 
planted  with  her  own  hand  a  laurel  or  two  against  his  arrival. 
He  showed  her  favorite  seat,  still  called  Vanessa's  Bower. .  Three 
or  four  trees,  and  some  laurels,  indicate  the  spot.  They  had 
formerly,  according  to  the  old  man's  information,  been  trained 
into  a  close  arbor.  There  were  two  seats  and  a  rude  table  with- 
in the  bower,  the  opening  of  which  commanded  a  view  of  the 
Liffcy,  which  had  a  romantic  effect ;  and  there  was  a  small  cas- 
cade that  murmured  at  some  distance.  In  this  sequestered 
spot,  according  to  the  old  gardener's  account,  the  Dean  and 
Vanessa  used  often  to  sit,  with  books  a-nd  writing  materials  OD 
the  table  before  them."— Scott's  Life  of  Swift. 
*  Scott's  Life  of  Swift. 


STELLA    AND    VANESSA.  447 

her  fortune  and  herself  at  his  feet,  and  bathed 
them  with  tears  of  gratitude,  if  he  would  have 
deigned  to  lift  her  to  his  arms.  In  the  midst  of  all 
the  mortification,  anguish,  and  heart-wearing  sus- 
pense to  which  his  stern  temper  and  inexplicable 
conduct  exposed  her,  still  she  clung  to  the  hopes 
he  had  awakened,  and  which  either  in  cowardice, 
or  compassion,  or  selfish  egotism,  he  still  kept  alive. 
He  concludes  one  of  his  letters  with  the  following 
sentence  in  French,  "mais  soyez  assuree,  que 
jamais  personne  au  monde  n'a  etc  aimee,  honoree, 
estimee,  adoree,  par  votre  amie,  que  vous  :"*  and 
there  are  other  passages  to  the  same  effect,  little 
agreeing  with  his  professions  to  poor  Stella  : — one 
or  the  other,  or  both,  must  have  been  grossly  de- 
ceived. 

After  declarations  so  explicit,  Vanessa  naturally 
wondered  that  he  proceeded  no  farther  ;  it  appears 
that  he  sometimes  endeavored  to  repress  her  over- 
flowing tenderness,  by  treating  her  with  a  harsh- 
ness which  drove  her  almost  to  frenzy.  There  is 
really  nothing  in  the  effusions  of  Helo'ise  or  Mdlle 
de  1'Espinasse,  that  can  exceed,  in  pathos  and 
burning  eloquence,  some  of  her  letters  to  him 
during  this  period  of  their  connection-!  When  he 

*  Correspondence,  (as  quoted  in  Sheridan's  Life  of  Swift.) 
1 1  give  one  specimen,  not  as  the  most  eloquent  that  could 
be  extracted,  but  as  most  illustrative  of  the  story. 

"  You  bid  me  be  easy,  and  you  would  see  me  as  often  as  you 
could ;  you  had  better  have  said  as  often  as  you  could  get  tha 
better  of  your  inclination  so  much ;  or,  as  often  as  you  remem- 
bered there  was  such  a  person  in  the  world.  If  you  continue  ho 


448  SWIFT. 

had  reduced  her  to  the  most  shocking  and  pitiable 
btate,  so  that  her  life  or  her  reason  were  threatened, 
he  would  endeavour  to  soothe  her  in  language  which 
again  revived  her  hopes — 

Give  the  reed 

From  storms  a  shelter, — give  the  drooping  vine 
Something  round  which  its  tendrils  may  entwine, — 
Give  the  parch'd  flower  the  rain-drop, — and  the  meed 
Of  love's  kind  words  to  woman!* 

It  will  be  said,  where  was  her  sex's   delicacy, 
where  her  woman's  pride  ?     Alas ! — 

La  Vergogna  ritien  debile  amore, 
Ma  debil  freno  e  di  potente  amore. 

In   this   agonizing   suspense  she   lived   through 

treat  me  as  you  do,  you  will  not  be  made  uneasy  by  me  long. 
'Tis  impossible  to  describe  what  I  have  suffered  since  I  saw  you 
last ;  I  am  sure  I  could  have  borne  the  rack  much  better  than 
those  killing,  killing  words  of  yours.  Sometimes  I  have  resolved 
to  die  without  seeing  you  more ;  but  those  resolves,  to  your  mis- 
fortune, did  not  last  long,  for  there  is  something  in  human 
nature  that  prompts  us  to  seek  relief  in  this  world.  I  must  give 
way  to  it,  and  beg  you  would  see  n  e,  and  speak  kindly  to  me; 
for  I  am  sure  you  would  not  condemn  any  one  to  suffer  what 
I  have  done,  could  you  but  know  it.  The  reason  I  write  to  you 
is  this,  because  I  cannot  tell  it  you,  should  I  see  you ;  for  when  I 
begin  to  complain,  then  you  are  angry,  and  there  is  something 
in  your  look  so  awful,  that  it  strikes  me  dumb.  Oh  !  that  you 
may  but  have  so  much  regard  for  me  left,  that  this  com- 
plaint may  touch  your  soul  with  pity  !  I  say  as  little  as  ever  I 
can.  Did  you  but  know  what  I  thought,  I  am  sure  it  would 
move  you.  Forgive  me,  and  believe,  I  cannot  help  telling  you 
this,  and  live."— LET-ERS,  Vol.  xix.  page  421. 
*  Mrs.  Hemana. 


STELLA    AND    VANESSA.  449 

eight  long  years ;  till  unable  to  endure  it  longer, 
and  being  aware  of  the  existence  of  Stella,  she 
took  the  decisive  step  of  writing  to  her  rival, 
and  desired  to  know  whether  she  was,  or  was  not, 
married  to  Swift  ?  Stella  answered  her  immedi- 
ately in  the  affirmative;  and  then,  justly  indignant 
that  he  should  have  given  any  other  woman  such  a 
right  in  him  as  was  implied  by  the  question,  she 
enclosed  Vanessa's  letter  to  Swift;  and  instantly, 
with  a  spirit  she  had  never  before  exerted,  quitted 
her  lodgings,  withdrew  to  the  house  of  Mr.  Ford, 
of  Wood  Park,  and  threw  herself  on  the  friendship 
and  protection  of  his  family. 

This  lamentable  tragedy  was  now  brought  to  a 
crisis.  Swift,  on  receiving  the  letter,  was  seized 
with  one  of  those  insane  paroxysms  of  rage  to  winch 
he  was  subject.  He  mounted  his  horse,  rode  down 
to  Celbridge,  suddenly  entered  the  room  in  which 
Vanessa  was  sitting.  His  countenance,  fitted  by 
nature  to  express  the  dark  and  fierce  passions,  so 
terrified  her,  that  she  could  scarce  ask  him  whether 
he  would  sit  down  ?  He  replied  savagely,  "  No  !  " 
and  throwing  down  before  her,  her  own  letter  to 
Stella,  with  a  look  of  inexpressible  scorn  and  anger, 
flung  out  of  the  room,  and  returned  to  Dublin. 

This  cruel  scene  was  her  death  warrant.*  Hith- 
erto she  had  venerated  Swift ;  and  in  the  midst  of 
her  sufferings,  confided  in  him,  idolized  him  as  the 
first  of  human  beings.  What  must  he  now  have 
appeared  in  her  eyes  ?— They  say,  "  Hell  has  no 

*  Johnson rs  Life  of  Swift. 
29 


450  SWIFT. 

furj  like  a  woman  scorned ; " — it  is  not  so :  the  re- 
coil of  the  heart,  when  forced  to  abhor  and  con- 
temn, where  it  has  once  loved,  is  far, — far  worse  j 
and  Vanessa,  who  had  endured  her  lover's  scorn, 
could  not  scorn  him,  and  live.  She  was  seized  with 
a  delirous  fever,  and  died  "  in  resentment  and  in 
despair."  *  She  desired,  in  her  last  will,  that  the. 
poem  of  Cadenus  and  Vanessa,  which  she  consid 
ered  as  a  monument  of  Swift's  love  for  her,  should 
be  published,  with  some  of  his  letters,  which  would 
have  explained  what  was  left  obscure,  and  have 
cleared  her  fame.  The  poem  was  published ;  but  tho 
letters,  by  the  interference  of  Swift's  friends,  were, 
at  the  time,  suppressed. 

On  her  death,  and  Stella's  flight,  Swift  absented 
himself  from  home  for  two  months,  nor  did  any  one 
know  whither  he  was  gone.  During  that  time, 
what  must  have  been  his  feelings — if  he  felt  at  all  ? 
what  agonies  of  remorse,  grief,  shame,  and  horror, 
must  have  wrung  his  bosom !  he  had,  in  effect, 
murdered  the  woman  who  loved  him,  as  absolutely 
as  if  he  had  plunged  a  poniard  into  her  heart :  and 
yet  it  is  not  clear  that  Swift  was  a  prey  to  any  such 
feelings ;  at  least  his  subsequent  conduct  gave  no 
assurance  of  it.  On  his  return  to  Dublin,  mutual 
friends  interfered  to  reconcile  him  with  Stella. 
About  this  time,  she  happened  to  meet,  at  a  dinner- 
party, a  gentleman  who  was  a  stranger  to  the  rea] 
circumstances  of  her  situation,  and  who  began  to 
speak  of  the  poem  of  Cadenus  and  Vanessa,  then 

*  Johnson,  Sheridan,  Scott. 


STELLA   AND    VANESSA.  451 

just  publishtd.  He  observed,  that  Vanessa  must 
have  been  an  admirable  creature  to  have  inspired 
the  Dean  to  write  so  finely.  "  That  does  not  fol- 
low," replied  Mrs.  Johnson,  with  bitterness ;  "  it  is 
well  known  that  the  Dean  could  write  finely  on  a 
broomstick"  Ah  !  how  must  jealousy  and  irrita- 
tion, and  long  habits  of  intimacy  with  Swift  have 
poisoned  the  mind  and  temper  of  this  unhappy 
woman,  before  she  could  have  uttered  this  cruel 
sarcasm  ! — And  yet  she  was  true  to  the  softness  of 
her  sex  ;  for  after  the  lapse  of  several  months,  dur- 
ing which  it  required  all  the  attention  of  Mr.  Ford 
and  his  family  to  sustain  and  console  her,  she  con- 
sented to  return  to  Dublin,  and  live  with  the  Dean 
on  the  same  terms  as  before.  Well  does  old  Chau- 
oer  say, 

There  can  be  no  man  in  humblesse  him  acquite 
A.S  woman  can,  ne  can  be  half  so  true 
As  woman  be ! 

"  Swift  welcomed  her  to  town,"  says  Sheridan, 
"  with  that  beautiful  poem  entitled  '  Stella  at 
Wood  Park  ; ' "  that  is  to  say,  he  welcomed  back  to 
the  home  from  which  he  had  driven  her,  the 
woman  whose  heart  he  had  wellnigh  broken, 
the  wife  he  had  every  way  injured  and  abused, — 
with  a  tissue  of  coarse  sarcasms,  on  the  taste  for 
magnificence  she  must  have  acquired  in  her  visit 
to  Wood  Park,  and  the  difficulty  of  descending 

From  every  day  a  lordly  banquet 
To  half  a  joint — and  God  be  thankefc! 


1 52  SWIFT. 

From  partridges  and  venison  with  the  right  fumette^ 
—to 

Small  beer,  a  herring,  and  the  Dean. 

And  this  was  all  the  sentiment,  all  the  poetry  with 
which  the  occasion  inspired  him  ! 

Stella  naturally  hoped,  that  when  her  rival  was 
no  more,  and  Swift  no  longer  exposed  to  her  tor- 
turing reproaches,  that  he  would  do  her  tardy  jus- 
tice, and  at  length  acknowledge  her  as  his  wife. 
But  no ; — it  would  have  cost  him  some  little  morti- 
fication and  inconvenience ;  and  on  such  a  paltry 
pretext  he  suffered  this  amiable  and  admirable 
woman,  of  whom  he  had  said,  that  "  her  merits 
towards  him  were  greater  than  ever  was  in  any 
human  being  towards  another ; "  and  "  that  she 
excelled  in  every  good  quality  that  could  possibly 
accomplish  a  human  creature," — this  woman  did  he 
suffer  to  languish  into  the  grave,  broken  in  heart, 
and  blighted  in  name.  When  Stella  was  on  her 
death-bed,  some  conversation  passed  between  them 
upon  this  sad  subject.  Only  Swift's  reply  was  aud- 
ible :  he  said,  "  Well,  my  dear,  it  shall  be  acknowl- 
edged, if  you  wish  it."  To  which  she  answered  with 
a  sigh,  "  It  is  now  too  late  !  "  *  It  was  too  late  ! — 

*  Scott's  Life  of  Swift.— Sheridan  has  recorded  another  inter- 
view between  Stella  and  her  destroyer,  in  which  she  besought 
him  to  acknowledge  her  before  her  death,  that  she  might  have 
the  satisfaction  of  dying  his  wife;  and  he  refused. 

Dated  Feb.  7, 1728, 1  find  a  letter  from  Swift  to  Martha  B'lount, 
written  in  a  style  of  gay  badinage,  and  her  answer:  and  in 
neither  is  there  the  slightest  allusion  to  his  recent  loss. — Kostoe'i 
Pope,  vol.  viii.  p.  460. 


STELLA   AND   VANESSA.  453 

What  now  to  her  was  womanhood  or  fameV 
She  died   of  a  lingering   decline,  in   January, 
1728,  four  years  after  the  death  of  Miss  Vanhom- 
righ. 

Thus  perished  these  two  innocent,  warm-hearted 
and  accomplished  women  ; — so  rich  in  all  the  graces 
of  their  sex — so  formed  to  love  and  to  be  loved,  to 
bless,  and  to  be  blessed, — sacrifices  to  the  demoniac 
pride  of  the  man  they  had  loved  and  trusted.  But 
it  will  be  said,  "  si  elles  n'avaient  point  aime,  elles 
seraient  moins  connues :  "  they  have  become  im- 
mortal by  their  connection  with  genius  ;  they  are 
celebrated,  merely  through  their  attachment  to  a 
celebrated  man.  But,  good  God  !  what  an  immor- 
tality !  won  by  what  martyrdom  of  the  heart ! — 
And  what  a  celebrity  !  not  that  with  which  the 
poet's  love,  and  his  diviner  verse,  crown  the  deified 
object  of  his  homage,  but  a  celebrity,  purchased 
with  their  life-blood  and  their  tears  !  I  quit  the 
subject  with  a  sense  of  relief: — yet  one  word 
more. 

It  was  after  the  death  of  these  two  amiable 
women,  who  had  deserved  so  much  from  him,  and 
whose  enduring  tenderness  had  flung  round  his 
odious  life  and  character  their  only  redeeming 
charm  of  sentiment  and  interest,  that  the  native 
Crossness  and  rancor  of  this  incarnate  spirit  of  libel 
burst  forth  with  tenfold  virulence.*  He  showed 

*  It  was  after  the  death  of  Stella,  that  all  Swift's  coarsest  sat- 
ves  were  written.  He  was  in  the  act  of  writing  the  last  and  most 
ccrrible  of  these,  when  he  was  seized  with  insanity :  and  it  re 
\uaius  unfinished. 


454  SWIFT. 

how  true  had  been  his  love  and  his  respect 
by  insulting  and  reviling,  in  terms  a  scavenger 
would  .disavow,  the  sex  they  belonged  to.  Swift's 
master-passion  was  pride, — an  unconquerable,  all- 
engrossing,  self-revolving  pride  :  he  was  prcud  of 
his  vigorous  intellect,  proud  of  being  the  "  dreaa 
and  hate  of  half  mankind," — proud  of  his  con- 
tempt for  women, — proud  of  his  tremendous  pow- 
ers of  invective.  It  was  his  boast,  that  he  never 
forgave  an  injury ;  it  was  his  boast,  that  the  fero- 
cious and  unsparing  personal  satire  with  which  he 
avenged  himself  on  those  who  offended  him,  had 
never  been  softened  by  the  repentance,  or  averted 
by  the  concessions  of  the  offender.  Look  at  him 
in  his  last  years,  when  the  cold  earth  was  heaped 
over  those  who  would  have  cheered  and  soothed 
his  dark  and  stormy  spirit ;  without  a  friend — de- 
prived of  the  mighty  powers  he  had  abused — alter- 
nately a  drivelling  idiot  and  a  furious  maniac,  and 
sinking  from  both  into  a  helpless,  hopeless,  pros- 
trate lethargy  of  body  and  mind  ! — Draw, — draw 
the  curtain,  in  reverence  to  the  human  ruin,  lest 
our  woman's  heart  be  tempted  to  unwomanly  exul- 
tation 1 


POPE    AND    MARTHA    1JLOUKT.  455 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

POPE   AND    MARTHA    BLOUNT. 

IF  the  soul  of  sensibility,  which  I  believe  Pope 
really  possessed,  had  been  inclosed  in  a  healthful 
frame  and  an  agreeable  person,  we  might  have 
reckoned  him  among  our  preux  chevaliers,  and  have 
had  sonnets  instead  of  satires.  But  he  seems  to 
have  been  ever  divided  between  two  contending 
feelings.  He  was  peculiarly  sensible  to  the  charms 
of  women,  and  his  habits  as  a  valetudinarian,  ren- 
dered their  society  and  attention  not  only  soothing 
and  delightful,  but  absolutely  necessary  to  him: 
while,  unhappily,  there  mingled  with  this  real  love 
for  them,  and  dependence  on  them  as  a  sex,  the 
most  irascible  self-love ;  and  a  torturing  conscious- 
ness of  that  feebleness  and  deformity  of  person, 
which  imbittered  all  his  intercourse  with  them. 
He  felt  that,  in  his  character  of  poet,  he  could,  by 
his  homage,  flatter  their  vanity,  and  excite  their 
admiration  and  their  fear ;  but,  at  the  same  time,, 
he  was  shivering  under  the  apprehension  that,  as  a 
man,  they  regarded  him  with  contempt ;  and  that 
lie  could  never  hope  to  awaken  in  a  female  bo- 
som any  feelings  corresponding  with  his  own.  So 
rar  he  was  unjust  to  us  and  to  himself :  his  friend 


456  LOVES   OF   POP1U 

Lord  Lyttelton,  and   his   enemy  Lord    Hervey,* 
might  have  taught  him  better. 

On  reviewing  Pope's  life,  his  works,  and  his  cor 
respondence,  it  seems  to  me  that  these  two  opposite 
feelings  contending  in  his  bosom  from  youth  to  age, 
will  account  for  the  general  character  of  his  poemg 
with  a  reference  to  our  sex : — will  explain  why 
women  bear  so  prominent  a  part  in  all  his  works, 
whether  as  objects  of  poetical  gallantry,  honest 
admiration,  or  poignant  satire :  why  there  is  not 
among  all  his  productions  more  than  one  poem  de- 
cidedly amatory,  (and  that  one  partly  suppressed 
in  the  ordinary  editions  of  his  works,)  while  women 
only  have  furnished  him  with  the  materials  of  all 
his  cJief-d'ceuvres :  his  Elegy,  his  "  Rape  of  the 
Lock,"  the  "  Epistle  of  Heloise,"  and  the  second 
of  his  Moral  Essays.  He  may  call  us,  and  prove 
us,  in  his  antithetical  style,  "  a  contradiction :  "f  but 
we  may  retort ;  for,  as  far  as  women  are  concerned, 
Pope  was  himself  one  miserable  antithesis. 
***** 

The  "  Elegy  to  the  memory  of  an  unfortunate 
Lady,"  refers  to  a  tragedy  which  occurred  in  Pope's 
early  life,  and  over  which  he  has  studiously  drawn 

*  Lord  Hervey,  with  an  exterior  the  most  forbidding,  and  al- 
most ghastly,  contrived  to  supersede  Pope  in  the  good  graces  of 
Lady  M.  W.  Montagu;  carried  off  Mary  Lepell,  the  beautiful 
maid  of  honor,  from  a  host  of  rivals,  and  made  her  Lady  Hervey . 
nud  won  the  whole  heart  of  the  poor  Princess  Caroline,  who  is 
gaid  to  have  died  of  grief  for  his  loss. — See  WalpoWs  Memoii* 
if  George  II. 

1  u  Woman  's  at  ^est  a  contradiction  still." 


UNFORTUNATE  LADY.  457 

mi  impenetrable  veil.  When  his  friend  Mr.  Gary* 
wrote  to  him  on  the  subject,  many  years  after  the 
Elegy  was  published,  Pope,  in  his  reply,  left  this 
part  of  the  letter  unnoticed ;  and  a  second  appli- 
cation was  equally  unsuccessful.  His  biogi  iphers 
are  not  better  informed.  Johnson  remarks  upon 
the  Elegy,  that  it  commemorates  the  "  amorous  fury 
of  a  raving  girl,  who  liked  self-murder  better  than 
suspense  ; "  and  having  given  this  deadly  stroke 
with  his  critical  fang,  the  grim  old  lion  of  literature 
stalks  on  and  "  stays  no  farther  question."  But  is 
chis  merciful,  or  is  it  just?  by  what  right  does  he  sit 
in  judgment  on  the  unhappy  dead,  of  whom  he 
knew  nothing  ?  or  how  could  he  tell  by  what  course 
of  suffering,  disease,  or  tyranny,  a  gentle  spirit  may 
have  been  goaded  to  frenzy  ?  It  was  said,  on  the 
authority  of  some  French  author,  that  she  was  se- 
cretly attached  to  one  of  the  French  princes :  that, 
in  consequence,  her  uncle  and  guardian  ("  the 
mean  deserter  of  a  brother's  blood,")  forced  her 
into  a  convent,  where,  in  despair  and  madness,  she 
put  an  end  to  her  existence  ;  and  that  the  lines 

Why  bade  ye  else,  ye  powers !  her  soul  aspire 
Above  the  vulgar  flight  of  low  desire  ? 
Ambition  first  sprung  from  your  blest  abodes; 
The  glorious  fault  of  angels  and  of  gods, — 

refer  to  this  ambitious  passion.  But  then  again,  this 
has  been  contradicted.  Warton's  story  is  improb- 
able and  inconsistent  with  the  poem ;  *  and  the  as- 

*  See  Roscoe's  Life  of  Pope,  p.  87.    Warton  says  her  namri  wa« 
ffainsbury,  and  that  she  hung  herself. 


458  LOVES    OF    POPE. 

sertion  of  another  author,  *  that  she  was  in  love 
with  Pope,  and  as  deformed  as  himself,  is  most  un- 
likely. "O  ever  beauteous,  ever  friendly!"  is 
rather  a  strange  style  of  apostrophizing  one  de- 
formed in  person ;  and  exposed  to  misery,  and 
driven  to  suicide,  by  a  passion  for  himself.  In 
short,  it  is  all  mystery,  wonder,  and  conjecture. 

Other  women  who  have  been  loved,  celebrated, 
or  satirized  by  Pope,  are  at  least  more  notorious,  if 
not  so  interesting.  His  most  lasting  and  real  at- 
tachment, was  that  which  he  entertained  for  The- 
resa and  Martha  Blount,  who  alternately,  or  with 
divided  empire,  reigned  in  his  heart  or  fancy  for 
tive-and-thirty  years.  They  were  of  an  old  Roman 
Catholic  family  of  Oxfordshire ;  and  his  acquaint- 
ance with  them  appears  to  have  begun  as  early  as 
1707,  when  he  was  only  nineteen.  Theresa,  the 
handsomest  and  most  intelligent  of  the  two  sisters, 
was  a  brunette,  with  black  sparkling  eyes.  Martha 
was  short  in  stature,  fair,  with  blue  eyes,  and  a 
yofter  expression.  They  appear  to  have  been  toler- 
ably amiable,  and  much  attached  to  each  other : 
au  reste,  in  no  way  distinguished,  but  by  the  flatter- 
ing admiration  of  a  celebrated  man,  who  has  im- 
mortalized both. 

The  verses  addressed  to  them,  convey  in  general, 
either  counsel  or  compliment,  or  at  the  most  play- 
ful gallantry.  His  letters  express  something  be- 
yond these.  He  began  by  admiring  Theresa ;  then 
he  wavered :  there  were  misunderstandings,  and 

*  Warburton. 


MARTHA    BLOUNT.  459 

petulance,  and  mutual  bickerings.  His  suscep- 
tibility exposed  him  to  be  continually  wounded ;  he 
felt  deeply  and  acutely  ;  he  was  conscious  that  he 
could  inspire  no  sentiment  corresponding  with  thai 
which  throbbed  at  his  own  heart :  and  some  pas- 
sages in  the  correspondence  cannot  be  read  with- 
out a  painful  pity.  At  length,  upon  some  mutual 
offhnce.  his  partiality  for  Theresa  was  transferred  to 
Martha.  In  one  of  his  last  letters  to  Theresa,  he 
says,  beautifully  and  feelingly,  "  We  are  too  apt  to 
resent  things  too  highly,  till  we  come  to  know,  by 
some  great  misfortune  or  other,  how  much  we  are 
bcrn  to  endure ;  and  as  for  me,  you  need  not  sus- 
pect of  resentment  a  soul  which  can  feel  nothing 
but  grief." 

His  attachment  to  Martha  increased  after  his 
quarrel  with  Lady  Mstry  W.  Montagu,  and  ended 
only  with  his  life. 

"  He  was  never,"  says  Mr.  Bowles,  "  indifferent 
to  female  society ;  and  though  his  good  sense  pre- 
vented him,  conscious  of  so  many  personal  in- 
firmities, from  marrying,  yet  he  felt  the  want  of 
that  sort  of  reciprocal  tenderness  and  confidence  in 
a  female,  to  whom  he  might  freely  communicate 
his  thoughts,  and  on  whom,  in  sickness  and  in- 
firmity, he  could  rely.  All  this  Martha  Blount  be- 
came to  him;  by  degrees,  she  became  identified 
with  his  existence.  She  partook  of  his  disappoint- 
ments, his  vexations,  and  his  comforts.  Wherever 
he  went,  his  correspondence  with  her  was  never 
remitted ;  and  when  the  warmth  of  gallantry  wa» 


460  LOVES  .OF   POPE. 

over,  the  cherished  idea  of  kindness  and  regard 
remained."* 

To  Martha  Blount  is  addressed  the  compliment 
on  her  birthday — 

Oli  be  thou  blest  with  all  that  heaven  can  send,— 
Long  health,  long  youth,  long  pleasure,  and  a  fiicr.d! 

And  an  epistle  sent  to  her,  with  the  works  of 
Voiture,  in  which  he  advises  her  against  marriage, 
in  this  elegant  and  well-known  passage, — 

Too  much  your  sex  are  by  their  forms  confiu'd, 

Severe  to  all,  but  most  to  womankind; 

Custom,  grown  blind  with  age,  must  be  your  guide 

Your  pleasure  is  a  vice,  but  not  your  pride. 

By  nature  yielding,  stubborn  but  for  fame. 

Made  slaves  by  honor,  and  made  fools  by  shame. 

Marriage  may  all  those  petty  tyrants  chase, 

But  sets  up  one,  a  greater,  in  their  place: 

Well  might  you  wish  for  change,  by  those  accurst, 

But  the  last  tyrant  ever  proves  the  worst. 

Still  in  constraint  your  suffering  ser.  remains, 

Or  bound  in  formal  or  in  real  chains: 

Whole  years  neglected,  for  some  months  adored, 

The  fawning  servant  turns  a  haughty  lord. 

Ah.  quit  not  the  free  innocence  of  life 

For  the  dull  glory  of  a  virtuous  wife ! 

Nor  let  false  shows,  nor  empty  titles  please, — 

Aim  not  at  joy,  but  rest  content  with  ease. 

Very  excellent  advice,  and  very  disinterested 
considering  whence  it  came,  and  to  whom  it  was 
addressed  ! ! 

*  Bowles's  edition  of  Pope,  vol.  i.  p.  69. 


MARTHA   BLOUNT.  461 

The  poem  generally  placed  after  this  in  his 
works,  and  entitled  "  Epistle  to  the  same  Lady,  on 
leaving  town  after  the  Coronation,"  was  certainly 
not  addressed  to  Martha,  but  to  Theresa.  It  ap- 
pears from  the  correspondence,  that  Martha  was 
not  at  the  Coronation  in  1715,  and  that  Theresa 
was.  The  whole  tenor  of  this  poem  is  agreeable 
to  the  sprightly  person  and  character  of  Theresa, 
while  "  Parthenia's  softer  blush,"  evidently  alludes 
to  Martha.  From  an  examination  of  the  letters 
which  were  written  at  this  time,  I  should  imagine, 
that  though  Pope  had  previously  assured  the  latter 
that  she  had  gained  the  conquest  over  her  fair  sister, 
yet  the  public  appearance  of  Theresa  at  the  Coro- 
nation, and  her  superior  charms,  revived  all  his 
tenderness  and  admiration,  and  suggested  this  gay 
and  pleasing  effusion. 

In  some  fair  evening,  on  your  elbow  laid, 

You  dream  of  triumphs  in  the  rural  shade ; 

In  pensive  thought  recall  the  fancy'd  scene, 

See  coronations  rise  on  every  green. 

Before  you  pass  th'  imaginaiy  sights 

Of  lords,  and  earls,  and  dukes,  and  garter'd  knights, 

While  the  spread  fan  o'ershades  your  closing  eyes, — 

Then  give  one  flirt,  and  all  the  vision  flies. 

Thus  vanish  sceptres,  coronets,  and  balls, 

And  leave  you  in  lone  woods  or  empty  walls ! 

To  Martha  Blount  is  dedicated  the  "  Epistle  on 
ihe  Characters  of  Women ; "  which  concludes  with 
&is  elegant  and  flattering  address  to  her. 

0 !  blest  with  temper,  whose  unclouded  ray 


462  LOVES   OF   POPE. 

Can  make  to-morrow  cheerful  as  to-day; 
She  who  can  love  a  sister's  charms,  or  hear 
Sighs  for  a  daughter  with  unwounded  ear; 
She  who  ne'er  answers  till  a  husband  cools, 
Or  if  she  rules  him,  never  shows  she  rules ; 
Charms  by  accepting,  by  submitting  sways. 
Yet  has  her  humor  most  when  she  obeys ; 
Let  fops  or  fortune  fly  which  way  they  will, 
Disdains  all  loss  of  tickets_or  codille; 
Spleen,  vapors,  or  smallpox,  above  them  all, 
And  mistress  of  herself  though  China  fall. 

The  allusion  to  her  affection  for  her  sister,  is  just 
and  beautiful ;  but  the  compliment  to  her  temper 
is  understood  not  to  have  been  quite  merited — per- 
haps, ~was  rather  administered  as  a  corrective ;  for 
Martha  was  weak  and  captious;  and  Pope,  who 
had  suffered  what  torments  a  female  wit  could  in- 
flict, possibly  found  that  peevishness  and  folly  have 
also  their  d&agremens.  He  complains  frequently, 
in  his  letters  to  Martha,  of  the  difficulty  of  pleas- 
ing her,  or  understanding  her  wishes.  Methinks, 
had  I  been  a  poet,  or  Pope,  I  would  rather  have 
been  led  about  in  triumph  by  the  spirited,  accom- 
plished Lady  Mary,  than  "  chained  to  the  footstool 
of  two  paltry  girls." 

They  used  to  employ  him  constantly  in  the  most 
trifling  and  troublesome  commissions,  in  which  he 
had  seldom  even  the  satisfaction  of  contenting 
them.  He  was  accustomed  to  send  them  little  pres- 
ents almost  daily,  as  concert  tickets,  ribbons,  fruit, 
&c.  He  once  sent  them  a  basket  of  peaches,  which, 
with  an  affectation  of  careless  gallantry,  were  sep 


MARTHA   BLOUNT.  463 

arately  wrapped  in  part  of  the  manuscript  trans- 
lation of  the  Iliad  :  and  he  humbly  requests  them 
to  return  the  wrappers,  as  he  had  no  other  copy. 
On  another  occasion  he  sent  them  fans,  on  which 
were  inscribed  his  famous  lines, 

"  Come,  gentle  air,"  th'  Eolian  shepherd  said,  &c. 

Martha  Blount  was  not  so  kind  or  so  attentive  to 
Pope  in  his  last  illness  as  she  ought  to  have  been. 
His  love  for  her  seemed  blended  with  his  frail  ex 
istence ;  and  when  he  was  scarcely  sensible  to  an* 
thing  else  in  the  world,  he  was  still  conscious  ol 
the  charm  of  her  presence.  "  When  she  came  in- 
to the  room"  says  Spence,  " it  was  enough  to  give 
a  new  turn  to  his  spirits,  and  a  temporary  strength 
to  him." 

She  survived  him  eighteen  years,  and  died  un- 
married at  her  house  in  Berkeley  Square,  in  1762. 
She  is  described,  about  that  time,  as  a  little,  fair, 
prim  old  woman,  very  lively,  and  inclined  to  gossip. 
Her  undefined  connection  with  Pope,  though  it  af- 
forded matter  for  mirth  and  wonder,  never  affected 
her  reputation  while  living ;  and  has  rendered  her 
name  as  immortal  as  our  language  and  our  litera- 
ture. One  cannot  help  wishing  that  she  had  been 
more  interesting,  and  more  worthy  of  her  fame. 


464  LOVES   OF   POPR. 

CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

POPE    AND    LADY   M.    W.    MONTAGU. 

IN  the  same  year  with  Martha  Blotmt,  and  about 
the  same  age,  died  Lady  Mary  W.  Montagu.  Ever)' 
body  knows  that  she  was  one  of  Pope's  early  loves. 
She  had,  for  several  years,  suspended  his  attach- 
ment to  his  first  favorites,  the  Blouuts;  and  she 
really  deserved  the  preference.  But  the  issue  of 
this  romantic  attachment  was  the  most  bitter,  the 
most  irreconcilable  enmity.  The  cause  did  not 
proceed  so  much  from  any  one  particular  offence 
on  either  side,  but  rather  from  a  multitude  of  tri- 
fling causes,  arising  naturally  out  of  the  characters 
of  both. 

When  they  first  met,  Pope  was  about  six-and- 
twenty;  and  from  the  recent  publication  of  the 
"  Rape  of  the  Lock,"  and  "  The  Temple  of  Fame," 
&c.,  had  reached  the  pinnacle  of  fashion  and  reputa* 
tion.  Lady  Mary  was  in  her  twenty-third  year, 
lately  married  to  a  man  she  loved,  and  had  just 
burst  upon  the  world  in  all  the  blaze  of  her  wit 
and  beauty.  Her  masculine  acquirements  and 
powers  of  mind — her  strong  good  sense — her  ex- 
tensive views — her  frankness,  decision,  and  gener- 
osity— her  vivacity,  and  her  bright  eyes,  must  al- 
together have  rendered  her  one  of  the  most  fasci- 
nating, as  she  really  was  one  of  the  most  extra- 
ordinary, women  that  ever  lived. 


LADY    M.    W.    MONTAG1 


There  stands,  in  a  conspicuous  part 
pity,  a  certain  monument,  erected,  it 
cost  of  the  ladies  of  Britain ;  but  in  a  spirit  and 
taste  which.  I  trust,  are  not  those  of  my  country- 
women at  large.  Is  this  our  patriotism  V  We  may 
applaud  the  brave,  who  go  forth  to  battle  to 
defend  us,  and  preserve  inviolate  the  sanctity  of 
our  hearths  and  homes ;  but  does  it  become  us  to 
'lend  our  voice  to  exult  in  victory,  always  bought 
at  the  expense  of  suffering,  and  aggravate  the  din 
and  the  clamor  of  war — we,  who  ought  to  be  the 
peace-makers  of  the  world,  and  plead  for  man 
against  his  own  fierce  passions  ?  A  huge  brazen 
image  stands  up,  an  impudent  (false)  witness  of 
our  martial  enthusiasm ;  but  who  amongst  us  has 
thought  of  raising  a  public  statue  to  Lady  Wortley 
Montagu!  to  her  who  has  almost  banished  from 
the  world  that  pest  which  once  extinguished 
famil'.es  and  desolated  provinces?  To  her  true 
patriotic  spirit, — to  her  magnanimity,  her  generous 
perseverance,  in  surmounting  all  obstacles  raised 
by  the  outcry  of  ignorance,  and  the  obstinacy  of 
prejudice,  we  owe  the  introduction  of  inoculation ; 
-—she  ought  to  stand  in  marble  beside  Howard  the 
good.* 

*  In  Litchfield  Cathedral  stands  the  only  memorial  ever  raised, 
by  public  or  private  gratitude,  to  Lady  Mary ;  it  is  a  cenotaph, 
Tilth  Beauty  weeping  the  loss  of  her  preserver,  and  an  inscrip- 
tion, of  which  the  following  words  form  the  conclusion :  "  To 
perpetuate  the  memory  of  such  benevolence,  and  to  express  her 
gratitude  for  the  benefit  she  herself  received  from  this  alleviating 
art,  this  monument  is  erected  by  Henrietta  Inge,  relict  of  Theo 
30 


466  LOVES    OF    POPE 

I  should  imagine  that  a  strong  impression  must 
have  been  made  on  Lady  Mary's  mind  by  an  inci- 
dent which  occurred  just  at  the  time  she  left  Eng- 
land for  Constantinople.  Lord  Petre, — he  who  is 
consecrated  to  fame  in  the  Rape  of  the  Lock,  as 
the  ravisher  of  Arabella  Fermour's  hair, — died  of 
the  smallpox  at  the  age  of  three-and-twenty,  Just 
after  his  marriage  with  a  young  and  beautiful  heir- 
ess ;  his  death  caused  a  general  sympathy,  and 
added  to  the  dread  and  horror  which  was  inspired 
by  this  terrible  disease :  eighteen  persons  of  his 
family  had  died  of  it  within  twenty-seven  years. 
In  those  days  it  was  not  even  allowable  to  mention, 
or  allude  to  it  in  company. 

Mr.  Wortley  was  appointed  to  the  Turkish  em- 
bassy in  1716,  and  his  wife  accompanied  him. 
The  letters  which  passed  between  her  and  Pope, 
during  her  absence,  are  well  known.  In  point  of 
style  and  liveliness,  the  superiority  is  on  the  lady's 
side  ;  but  the  tone  of  feeling  in  Pope  is  better,  more 
earnest ;  his  language  is  not  always  within  the 
bounds  of  that  sprightly  gallantry  with  which  a  man 
naturally  addresses  a  young,  beautiful,  and  virtuous 
woman,  who  had  condescended  to  allow  his  hom- 
age* 

dore  William  Inge,  and  daughter  of  Sir  John  Wrottesley,  Bart., 
in  1789."  One  would  like  to  have  known  the  woman  who  raised 
this  monument. 

*  "  You  shall  see  (said  Lady  Mary  referring  to  these  letters) 
what  a  goddess  he  made  of  me  in  some  of  them,  though  he  makes 
snch  a  devil  of  me  in  his  writings  afterwards,  without  any  reason 
that  I  know  of."— Sptnce. 


LADY   M.    W.   MONTAGU.  467 

Tn  cne  of  his  letters,  written  immediately  after 
her  departure,  he  asks  her  how  he  had  looked  ? 
how  he  had  behaved  at  the  last  moment  V  whether 
he  had  betrayed  any  deeper  feeling  than  propriety 
might  warrant  ?  "  For  if,"  he  says,  "  my  parting 
looked  like  that  of  a  common  acquaintance,  I  am 
the  ^Teatest  of  all  hypocrites  that  ever  decency 
made."  And  in  a  subsequent  letter  he  says,  very 
feelingly  and  significantly,  "  May  that  person  (her 
husband)  for  whom  you  have  left  the  world,  be  so 
just  as  to  prefer  you  to  all  the  world.  I  believe 
his  good  sense  leads  him  to  do  so  now,  as  gratitude 
will  hereafter.  May  you  continue  to  think  him 
worthy  of  whatever  you  have  done  !  may  you  ever 
look  upon  him  with  the  eyes  of  a  first  lover,  nay, 
if  possible,  with  all  the  unreasonable  happy  fond- 
ness of  an  unexperienced  one,  surrounded  with  all 
the  enchantments  and  ideas  of  romance  and  poe- 
try !  I  wish  this  from  my  heart ;  and  while  I  exam- 
ine what  passes  there  in  regard  to  you,  I  cannot  but 
glory  in  my  own  heart,  that  it  is  capable  of  so  much 
generosity:" 

This  was  sufficiently  clear.  I  need  scarcely  re- 
mark, en  passant,  that  Pope's  generosity  and  wishes 
were  all  en  pure  perte  ;  his  spitefulness  must  have 
been  gratified  by  the  sequel  of  Lady  Mary's  do- 
mestic bliss ;  her  marriage  ended  in  disgust  and 
aversion;  which,  on  her  separation  from  Mr. 
Wortley,  subsided  into  a  good-humored  indiffer- 
ence.* 

*  I  remember  seeing,  I  think,  in  one  of  D'Israeli's  worto, » 


468  LOVES    OF    POPE. 

After  a  union  of  twenty-seven  years,  she  parted 
from  him  and  went  to  reside  abroad.  There  were 
errors  on  both  sides ;  but  I  am  obliged  to  admit 
that  Lady  Mary,  with  all  her  fine  qualities,  had  two 
faults,-  -intolerable  and  unpardonable  faults  in  the 
eyes  of  a  husband  or  a  lover.  She  wanted  softness 
of  mind,  and  refinement  of  feeling,  in  the  first 
place  ;  and  she  wanted — how  shall  I  express  it  ? — 
she  wanted  neatness  and  personal  delicacy  ;  and 
was  in  short,  that  odious  thing,  a  female  sloven,  as 
well  as  that  dangerous  thing,  a  female  wit. 

In  those  days  the  style  of  dress  was  the  most 
hideous  imaginable.  The  women  wore  a  large 
quantity  of  artificial  hair,  in  emulation  of  the  tre- 
mendous periwigs  of  the  men  ;  and  Pope,  in  one 
of  his  letters  to  Lady  Mary,  mentions  her  "  full- 
bottomed  wig,"  which,  he  says,  "  I  did  but  assert  to 
be  a  bob"  and  was  answered,  "  Love  is  blind ! " 
On  her  return  from  Turkey,  she  sometimes  allowed 
her  own  fine  dark  hair  to  flow  loose,  and  was  fond 
of  dressing  in  her  Turkish  costume.  In  this  she 
was  imitated  by  several  beautiful  women  of  the  day, 
and  particularly  by  her  lovely  contemporary,  Lady 
Fanny  Shirley,  (Chesterfield's  "  Fanny,  blooming 
fair:"  he  seems  to  have  admired  her  as  much  as 
he  could  possibly  admire  any  thing,  next  to  himself 
and  the  Graces.)  In  her  picture  at  Clarendon 
Park,  she  too  appears  in  the  habit  of  Fatima. 
Apropos,  to  the  loves  of  the  poets,  Lady  Fanny 

fragment  of  some  lines  which  Lady  Mary  wrote  on  her  husband, 
and  which  expressed  the  utmost  bitterness  of  female  scorn. 


LADY   M.    W.   MONTAGU.  468 

desei  ves  to  be  mentioned  as  the  theme  of  ail  the 
rhymesters,  and  "  the  joy,  the  wish,  the  wonder,  the 
despair,"  of  all  the  beaux  of  her  day.* 

But  it  is  time  to  return  to  Pope.  The  epistle  of 
Heloise  to  Abclard  was  published  during  Lady 
Mary's1  absence,  and  sent  to  her :  and  it  is  clear 
from  a  passage  in  one  of  his  letters,  that  he  wished 
her  to  consider  the  last  lines, — from 

And  sure,  if  fate  some  future  bard  shall  join, 
down  to 

He  best  can  paint  them,  who  can  feel  them  most, 

• 

as  applicable  to  himself  and  to  his  feelings  towards 
her. 

And  yet,  whatever  might  have  been  his  devotion 
to  Lady  Mary  before  she  went  abroad,  it  was  in- 
creased tenfold  after  her  memorable  travels.  At 
present,  whan  ladies  of  fashion  make  excursions  of 
pleasure  to  the  pyramids  of  Egypt  and  the  ruins 
of  Babylon,  a  journey  to  Constantinople  is  little 
more  than  a  trip  to  Rome  or  Vienna  ;  but  in  the 
last  age  it  was  a  prodigious  and  marvellous  under- 
taking ;  and  Lady  Mary,  on  her  return,  was  gazed 
upon  as  an  object  of  wonder  and  curiosity,  and 

*  See,  in  Pope's  Miscellanies,  the  sprightly  stanzas,  beginning 
"Yes,  I  beheld  th'  Athenian  Queen."  They  are  addressed  to 
Lady  Fanny,  who  had  presented  the  poet  with  i  standish,  and 
two  pens,  one  of  steel  and  one  of  gold.  She  wa.s  the  fourth 
daughter  of  Earl  Ferrers.  After  numbering  more  adorers  in  hei 
train  than  any  beauty  of  her  time,  she  died  unmarried,  in  1778 
-Callings  Peerage,  by  BryJges. 


470  LOVES    OF   POPE. 

sought  as  the  most  entertaining  person  in  the  world 
her  sprightliness  and  her  beauty,  her  oriental  »io- 
ries  and  her  Turkish  costume,  were  the  rage  of  the 
day.  With  Pope,  she  was  on  the  most  friendly 
terms  : — by  his  interference  and  negotiation,  a 
house  was  procured  for  her  and  Mr.  Wortley,  at 
Twickenham,  so  that  their  intercourse  was  almost 
constant.  When  he  finished  his  translation  of  the 
Iliad,  in  1720,  Gay  wrote  him  a  complimentary 
poem,  in  which  he  enumerates  the  host  of 'friends 
who  welcomed  the  poet  home  from  Greece ;  and 
among  them,  Lady  Mary  stands  conspicuous. 

What  lady's  that  to  whom  he  gently  bends  ? 

Who  knows  not  ner !  Ah,  those  are  Wortley's  eyes ; 
How  art  thou  honored,  numbered  with  her  friends, — 

For  she  distinguishes  the  good  and  wise ! 

To  this  period  we  may  also  refer  the  composition 
of  the  Stanzas  to  Lady  Mary,  which  begin,  "  In 
beauty  and  wit."*  The  measure  is  trivial  and  dis- 
agreeable, but  the  compliments  are  very  sprightly 
and  pointed. 

She  sat  to  Kneller  for  him  in  her  Turkish  dress ; 
and  we  have  the  following  note  from  him  on  the 
subject,  which  shows  how  much  he  felt  the  conde> 


*  In  beauty  and  wit, 
No  mortal  as  yet, 

To  question  your  empire  has  dared ; 
But  men  of  discerning 
Have  thought  that,  in  learning, 

To  yield  to  a  lady  was  hard. 


LADY    M     W.    MONTAGU.  471 

"  The  picture  dwells  really  at  my  heart,  and  I  have 
made  a  perfect  passion  of  preferring  your  present 
face  to  your  past.  I  know  and  thoroughly  esteem 
yourself  of  this  year.  I  know  no  more  of  Lady 
Mary  Pierrepoint  than  to  admire  at  what  I  have 
heard  of  her,  or  be  pleased  with  some  fragments  of 
hers,  as  I  am  with  Sappho's.  But  now — I  cannoi 
say  what  I  would  say  of  you  now.  Only  still  give 
me  cause  to  say  you  are  good  to  me,  and  allow  me 
as  much  of  your  person  as  Sir  Godfrey  can  help 
me  to.  Upon  conferring  with  him  yesterday,  I  find 
he  thinks  it  absolutely  necessary  to  draw  your  face 
first,  which,  he  says,  can  never  be  set  right  on  your 
figure,  if  the  drapery  and  posture  be  finished  be- 
fore. To  give  you  as  little  trouble  as  possible,  he 
purposes  to  draw  your  face  with  crayons,  and  finish 
it  up  at  your  own  house  of  a  morning  ;  from  whence 
he  will  transfer  it  to  canvas,  so  that  you  need  not 
go  to  sit  at  his  house.  This,  I  must  observe,  is  a 
manner  they  seldom  draw  any  but  crowned  heads, 
and  I  observe  it  with  a  secret  pride  and  pleasure. 
Be  so  kind  as  to  tell  me  if  you  care,  he  should  do 
this  to-morrow  at  twelve.  Though,  if  I  am  but 
assured  from  you  of  the  thing,  let  the  manner  and 
time  be  what  you  best  like  ;  let  every  decorum  you 
please  be  observed.  I  should  be  very  unworthy  of 
any  favor  from  your  hands,  if  I  desired  any  at  the 
expense  of  your  quiet  or  conveniency  in  any  de- 
gree." 

He  was  charmed  with  the  picture,  and  composed 
an  extemporary  compliment,  beginning 


472  LOVES    OF    POPE. 

The  playful  smiles  around  the  dimpled  mouth, 
That  happy  air  of  majesty  and  truth,  &c. 

which  considering  that  they  are  Pope's,  are 
strangely  defective  in  rhyme,  in  sense,  and  in 
grammar.  In  a  far  different  strain  are  the  beauti- 
ful lines  addressed  to  Gay  during  Lady  Mary's  ab- 
sence from  Twickenham,  and  which  he  afterwards 
endeavored  to  suppress.  They  are  curious  on  this 
account,  as  well  as  for  being  the  solitary  example 
of  amatory  verse  contained  in  his  works. 

Ah  friend !  'tis  true, — this  truth  you  lovers  know, 
In  vain  my  structures  rise,  my  gardens  grow ; 
In  vain  fair  Thames  reflects  the  double  scenes, 
Of  hanging  mountains,  and  of  sloping  greens; 
Joy  lives  not  here,  to  happier  seats  it  flies, 
And  only  dwells  where  Wortley  casts  her  eyes. 

What  are  the  gay  parterre,  the  checkered  shade, 
The  morning  bower,  the  evening  colonnade, 
But  soft  recesses  of  uneasy  minds, 
To  sigh  unheard  in  to  the  passing  winds  ? 
So  the  struck  deer,  in  some  sequester'd  part, 
Lies  down  to  die,  the  arrow  at  his  heart; 
There,  stretch' d  unseen  in  coverts  hid  from  days 
Bleeds  drop  by  drop,  and  pants  his  life  away. 

These  sweet  and  musical  lines,  which  fall  on  the 
ear  with  such  a  lulling  harmony,  are  dashed  with 
discord  when  we  remember  that  the  same  woman 
who  inspired  them,  was  afterwards  malignantly  and 
coarsely  designated  as  the  Sappho  of  his  satires. 
The  generous  heart  never  coolly  degraded  and  in- 
sulted whnt,  it  has  once  loved  ;  but  Pope  cc  uld  not 


LADY   M.    W.   MONTAGU.  478 

be  magnanimous, — it  was  not  in  his  spiteful  nature 
to  forgive.  He  says  of  himself, 

Who'er  offends,  at  some  unlucky  time 
Slides  into  verse,  and  bitches  in  a  rhyme.* 

One  of  Pope's  biographers  f  seems  to  insinuate, 
that  he  had  been  led  on,  by  the  lady's  coquetry,  to 
presume  too  far,  and  in  consequence  received  a 
repulse  which  he  never  forgave.  This  is  not  prob- 
able :  Pope  was  not  likely  to  be  so  desperate  or 
dangerous  an  admirer ;  nor  was  Lady  Mary,  who 
had  written  with  her  diamond  ring  on  a  window, 

Let  this  great  maxim  be  my  virtue's  guide : 
In  part,  she  is  to  blame  that  has  been  tried, — 
He  comes  too  near, that  comes  to  be*  denied! — 

at  all  likely  to  expose  herself  to  such  ridiculous 
audacity.  The  truth  is,  I  rather  imagine,  that  there 
was  a  great  deal  of  vanity  on  both  sides ;  that  the  lady 
was  amused  and  flattered,  and  the  poet  bewitched 
and  in  earnest :  that  she  gave  the  first  offence  by 
some  pointed  sarcasm  or  personal  ridicule,  in  which 
she  was  an  adept,  and  that  Pope,  gradually  awak- 
ened from  his  dream  of  adoration,  was  stung  to  the 

*  "  I  have  often  wondered,"  says  the  gentle-spirited  Covrper, 
"  that  the  same  poet  who  wrote  the  Dunciad  should  have  written 
these  lines, — 

That  mercy  I  to  others  show, 
That  mercy  show  to  me ! 

Alas !  for  Pope,  if  the  mercy  he  showed  to  others    was  the 
measure  of -the  mercy  he  received!" — Cowper's  Letters,  voJ  iU 
p.  195. 
t  Mr.  Bowles 


474  LOVES   OF   POPE. 

quick  by  her  laughing  scorn,  and  mortified  and  ur> 
tated  by  the  consciousness  of  his  wasted  attachment 
He  makes  this  confession  with  extreme  bitterness, 

Yet  soft  by  nature,  more  a  dupe  than  wit, 
Sappho  can  tell  you  how  this  man  was  bit. 

Prologue  to  the  Satires. 

The  lines  as  they  stand  in  a  first  edition  are  even 
more  pointed  and  significant,  and  have  much  more 
asperity. 

Once,  and  but  once,  his  heedless  youth  was  bit, 
And  liked  that  dangerous  thing,  a  female  wit. 
Safe  as  he  thought,  though  all  the  prudent  chid, 
He  wrote  no  libels,  but  my  lady  did ; 
Great  odds  in  amorous  or  poetic  game, 
Where  woman's  is  the  sin,  and  man's  the  shame  I 

The  result  was  a  deadly  and  interminable  feud. 
Lady  Mary  might  possibly  have  inflicted  the  first 
private  offence,  but  Pope  gave  the  first  public  af- 
front. A  man  who,  under  such  circumstances, 
iould  grossly  satirize  a  female,  would,  in  a  less  civ- 
ilized state  of  society,  have  revenged  himself  with 
a  blow.  The  brutality  and  cowardice  were  the  same 

The  war  of  words  did  not,  however,  proceed  at 
once  to  such  extremity ;  the  first  indication  of 
Pope's  revolt  from  his  sworn  allegiance,  and  a  con- 
scious hint  of  the  secret  cause,  may  be  found  in 
some  lines  addressed  to  a  lady  poetess,*  to  whom 
he  pays  a  compliment  at  Lady  Mary's  expense. 

*  Eriuna :  her  real  name  is  not  known.  But  she  was  a  friend 
of  Lady  Suffolk,  who  wrote  bad  verses,  and  submitted  them  t* 
Pope  for  correction. 


LADY    M.    W.    MONTAGU.  475 

Though  sprightly  Sappho  force  our  love  and  praise, 

A  softer  wonder  my  pleased  soul  surveys, — 

The  mild  Erinna  blushing  in  her  bays; 

So  while  the  sun's  broad  beam  yet  strikes  the  sight, 

All  mild  appears  the  moon's  more  sober  light. 

Serene  in  virgin  majesty  she  shines, 

And  unobserved,  the  glaring  orb  declines. 

Soon  after  appeared  that  ribald  and  ruffianlike 
attack  on  her  in  the  satires.  She  sent  Lord  Peter- 
borough to  remonstrate  with  Pope,  to  whom  he  de- 
nied the  intended  application  ;  and  his  disavowal 
is  a  proved  falsehood.  Lady  Mary,  exasperated, 
forgot  her  good  sense  and  her  feminine  dignity,  and 
made  common  cause  with  Lord  Hervey  (the  Lord 
Fanny  and  the  Sporus  of  the  Satires).  They  con- 
cocted an  attack  in  verse,  addressed  to  the  imita- 
tor of  Horace  ;  but  nothing  could  be  more  unequal 
than  such  a  warfare.  Pope,  in  return,  grasped  the 
blasting  and  volleyed  lightnings  of  his  wit,  and 
would  have  annihilated  both  his  adversaries,  if 
more  than  half  a  grain  of  truth  had  been  on  his 
side.  But  posterity  has  been  just :  in  his  anger, 
he  overcharged  his  weapon,  it  recoiled,  and  the 
engineer  has  been  "  hoisted  by  his  own  petard." 

Lady  Mary's  personal  negligence  afforded 
grounds  foi  Pope's  coarse  and  severe  allusions  to 
the  "  color  of  her  linen,"  &c.  His  asperity,  how- 
ever, did  not  reform  her  in  this  respect :  it  was  a 
fault  which  increased  with  ag3  and  foreign  habits, 
Horace  Walpole,  who  met  her  at  Florence  vvventy 
years  afterwards,  draws  a  hateful  and  disgusting 


476  LOVES   OF    POPE. 

picture  of  her,  as  "old,  dirty,  tawdry,  painted," 
and  flirting  and  gambling  with  all  the  young  men 
in  the  place.  But  Walpole  is  terribly  satirical ;  he 
had  a  personal  dislike  to  Lady  Mary  Wortlcy, 
whom  he  coarsely  designates  as  Moll  Worthless, — 
and  his  description  is  certainly  overcharged.  How 
differently  the  same  characters  will  strike  different 
people  !  Spence,  who  also  met  Lady  Mary  abroad, 
about  that  time,  thus  writes  to  his  mother  :  "  I  al- 
ways desired  to  be  acquainted  with  Lady  Mary, 
and  could  never  bring  it  about,  though  we  were  so 
often  together  in  London.  Soon  after  we  came  to 
this  place,  her  ladyship  came  here,  and  in  five  days 
I  was  well  acquainted  with  her.  She  is  one  of  the 
most  shining  characters  in  the  world, — but  shines 
like  a  comet  :  she  is  all  irregularity,  and  always 
wandering :  the  most  wise,  most  imprudent,  love- 
liest, most  disagreeable,  best-natured,  cruellest 
woman  in  the  world ! "  Walpole  could  see  nothing 
but  her  dirt  and  her  paint.  Those  who  recollect 
his  coarse  description,  and  do  not  remember  her 
letters  to  her  daughter,  written  from  Italy  about 
the  same  time,  would  do  well  to  refer  to  them  as  a 
corrective  :  it  is  always  so  easy  to  be  satirical  and 
ill-natured,  and  sometimes  so  difficult  to  be  just  and 
merciful ! 

The  cold  scornful  levity  with  which  she  treai;ed 
certain  topics,  is  mingled  with  touches  of  tender- 
ness and  profound  thought,  which  show  her  to  have 
been  a  disappointed,  not  a  heartless  woman.  The 
extreme  care  with  which  she  cultivated  pleasurable 


LADY   M.   W.    MONTAGD  471* 

feelings  and  ideas,  and  shrunk  from  all  disagree- 
able impressions  ;  her  determination  never  to  view 
her  own  face  in  a  glass,  after  the  approach  of  age, 
or  to  pronounce  the  name  of  her  mad,  profligate 
son,  may  be  referred  to  a  cause  very  different  from 
either  selfishness  or  vanity  :  but  I  think  the  princi- 
ple was  mistaken.  While  she  was  amusing  herself 
with  her  silk-worms  and  orangerie  at  Como,  her 
husband  Wortley,  with  whom  she  kept  up  a  con- 
stant correspondence,  was  hoarding  money  and 
drinking  tokay  to  keep  himself  alive.  He  died, 
however,  in  1761  ;  and  that  he  was  connected  with 
the  motives,  whatever  those  were,  which  induced 
Lady  Mary  to  reside  abroad  is  proved  by  the  fact, 
that  the  moment  she  heard  of  his  death  she  prepared 
to  return  to  England,  and  she  reached  London  in 
January,  1762.  "Lady  Mary  is  arrived,"  says 
Walpole,  writing  to  George  Montagu.  "I  have 
seen  her.  I/think  her  avarice,  her  dirt,  and  her 
vivacity,  are  all  increased.  Her  dress,  like  her 
language,  is  a  galimatias  of  several  countries.  _She 
needs  no  cap,  no  handkerchief,  no  gown,  no  petti- 
coat, no  shoes  ;  an  old  black-laced  hood  represents 
the  first ;  the  fur  of  a  horseman's  coat,  which  re- 
places the  third,  serves  for  the  second  ;  a  dimity 
petticoat  is  deputy,  and  officiates  for  the  fourth, 
and  slippers  act  the  part  of  the  last."  About  six 
months  after  her  arrival  she  died  in  the  arms  of 
her  daughter,  the  Countess  of  Bute,  of  a  cruel  and 
shocking  disease,  the  agonies  of  which  she  had 
borne  with  heroism  rather  than  resignation.  The 


478  POETICAL    OLD    BACHELORS. 

present  Marquess  of  Bute,  and  the  present  Lord 
Wharncliff'e,  are  the  great-grandsons  of  this  distin 
guished  woman  :  the  latter  is  the  representative  of 
'he  Wortley  family. 


CHAPTER  XXXVH. 

POETICAL   OLD   BACHELORS. 

THERE  is  a  certain  class  of  poets,  not  a  very  nu- 
merous one,  whom  I  would  call  poetical  old  bache- 
lors. They  are  such  as  enjoy  a  certain  degree  of 
fame  and  popularity  themselves,  without  sharing 
their  celebrity  with  any  fair  piece  of  excellence ; 
but  walk  each  on  his  solitary  path  to  glory,  wear- 
ing their  lonely  honors  with  more  dignity  than 
grace :  for  instance,  Corneille,  Racine,  Boileau,  the 
classical  names  of  French  poetry,  were  all  poetical 
old  bachelors.  Racine — le  tendre  Racine — as  he  is 
called  par  excellence,  is  said  never  to  have  been  in 
love  in  his  life  ;  nor  has  he  left  us  a  single  verse  in 
which  any  of  his  personal  feelings  can  be  traced, 
He  was,  however,  the  kind  and  faithful  husband  of 
a  cold,  bigoted  woman,  who  was  persuaded,  and  at 
length  persuaded  him,  that  he  would  be  grille  in 
the  other  world,  for  writing  heathen  tragedies  ic 
this :  and  made  it  her  boast  that  she  had  never  rea« 


GRAY— COLLINS.  470 

a  single  line  ot  her  husband's  works !     Peac<>,  be 
with  her ! 

And  0,  let  her  by  whom  the  muse  was  scorn' d, 
Alive  nor  dead,  be  of  the  muse  adorn'd! 

Our  own  Gray  was  in  every  sense,  real  and  po- 
etical, a  cold  fastidious  old  bachelor,  who  buried 
himself  in  the  recesses  of  his  college  ;  at  once  shy 
and  proud,  sensitive  and  selfish.  I  cannot,  on  look- 
ing through  his  memoirs,  letters,  and  poems,  dis- 
cover the  slightest  trace  of  passion,  or  one  proof  or 
even  indication  that  he  was  ever  under  the  influ- 
ence of  woman.  He  loved  his  mother,  and  was 
dutiful  to  two  tiresome  old  aunts,  who  thought  poe- 
try one  of  the  seven  deadly  sins — et  voila  tout.  He 
spent  his  life  in  amassing  an  inconceivable  quantity 
of  knowledge,  which  lay  as  buried  and  useless  as  a 
miser's  treasure ;  but  with  this  difference,  that 
when  the  miser  dies,  his  wealth  flows  forth  into  its 
natural  channels,  and  enriches  others ;  Gray's 
learning  was  entombed  with  him :  his  genius  sur- 
vives in  his  elegy  and  his  odes ; — what  became  of 
his  heart  I  know  not.  He  is  generally  supposed  to 
have  possessed  one,  though  none  can  guess  what  he 
did  with  it : — he  might  well  moralize  on  his  bache- 
lorship, and  call  himself  "  a  solitary  fly," — 

The  joys  no  glittering  female  meets,  , 

No  hive  hast  thou  of  hoarded  sweets, 
No  painted  plumage  to  display! 

Collins  was  never  a  lover,  and  never  married. 


480  POETICAL    OLD    BACHELORS. 

l^is  odes,  with  all  their  exquisite  fancy  and  splendid 
imagery,  have  not  much  interest  in  their  subjects, 
and  no  pathos  derived  from  feeling  or  passion.  He 
is  reported  to  have  been  once  in  love  ;  and  as  the 
lady  was  a  day  older  than  himself,  he  used  to  say 
jestingly,  that  "  he  came  into  the  world  a  day  after 
the  fair."  He  was  not  deeply  smitten  ;  and  though 
he  led  in  his  early  years  a  dissipated  life,  his  heart 
never  seems  to  have  been  really  touched.  He 
wrote  an  Ode  on  the  Passions,  in  which,  after 
dwelling  on  Hope,  Fear,  Anger,  Despair,  Pity,  and 
describing  them  with  many  picturesque  circum- 
stances, he  dismisses  Love  with  a  couple  of  lines, 
as  dancing  to  the  sound  of  the  sprightly  viol,  and 
forming  with  joy  the  light  fantastic  round.  Such 
was  Collins's  idea  of  love  ! 

To  these  we  may  add  Goldsmith.  Of  his  loves 
we  know  nothing ;  they  were  probably  the  reverse 
of  poetical,  and  may  have  had  some  influence  on 
his  purse  and  respectability,  but  none  on  his  lite- 
rary character  and  productions.  He  also  died  un 
married.  • 

Shenstone,  if  he  was  not  a  poetical  old  bache- 
lor, was  little  better  than  a  poetical  dangler.  H 
was  not  formed  to  captivate  :  his  person  was  clumsy, 
his  manners  disagreeable,  and  his  temper  feeble 
and  vacillating.  The  Delia  who  is  introduced 
•into  his  elegies,  and  the  Phillis  of  his  pastoral  bal- 
lad, was  Charlotte  Graves,  sister  to  the  Graves  who 
wrote  the  Spiritual  Quixotte  There  was  nothing 
warm  or  earnest  in  his  admiration,  and  all  his  gal 


THOMSON.  481 

Ian  try.  is  as  vapid  as  his  character.  He  never  gave 
the  lady  who  was  supposed,  and  supposed  herself, 
to  be  the  object  of  his  serious  pursuit,  an  opportu- 
nity of  accepting  or  rejecting  him ;  and  his  conduct 
has  been  blamed  as  ambiguous  and  unmanly.  His 
querulous  declamations  against  women  in  general, 
had  neither  cause  nor  excuse  ;  and  his  complaints 
of  infidelity  and  coldness  are  equally  without  foun- 
dation. He  died  unmarried. 

When  we  look  at  a  picture  of  Thomson,  we 
wonder  how  a  man  with  that  heavy,  pampered 
countenance,  and  awkward  mien,  could  ever  have 
written  "  The  Seasons,"  or  have  been  in  love.  I 
think  it  is  Barry  Cornwall,  who  says,  strikingly, 
that  Thomson's  figure  "  was  a  personification  of 
the  Castle  of  Indolence,  without  its  romance." 
Yet  Thomson,  though  he  has  not  given  any  popu- 
larity or  interest  to  the  name  of  a  woman,  is  said 
to  have  been  twice  in  love,  after  his  own  lack-a- 
daisical  fashion.  He  was  first  attached  to  Miss 
Stanley,  who  died  young,  and  upon  whom  he 
wrote  the  little  elegy, — 

Tell  me,  thou  soul  of  her  I  love !  &c. 

He  alludes  to  her  also  in  Summer,  in  the  passage 
beginning, — 

And  art  thou,  Stanley,  of  the  sacred  band  ?  &c. 
His  second  love  was  long,  quiet,  and  constant ; 
but  whether  the  lady's  coldness,  or  want  of  fortune, 
prevented  a  union,  is  not  clear  :  probably  the  lat- 
ter.    The  object  of  this  attachment  was  a  Miss 

31 


482  POETICAL    OLD    BACHELORS. 

Young,  who  resided  at  Richmond;  and  his  atten- 
tions to  her  were  continued  through  a  long  series 
of  years,  and  even  till  within  a  short  time  before 
his  death,  in  his  forty-eighth  year.  She  was  his 
Amanda ;  and  if  she  at  all  answered  the  description 
of  her  in  his  Spring,  she  must  have  been  a  lovely 
and  amiable  woman. 

And  thou,  Amanda,  come,  pride  of  my  song ! 
Form'd  by  the  Graces,  loveliness  itself! 
Come  with  those  downcast  eyes,  sedate  and  sweet. 
Those  looks  demure,  that  deeply  pierce  the  soul, 
Where,  with  the  light  of  thoughtful  reason  mix'd 
Shines  lively  fancy  and  the  feeling  heart: 
0,  come !  and  while  the  rosy-footed  May 
Steals  blushing  on,  together  let  us  tread 
The  morning  dews,  and  gather  in  their  prime 
Fresh-blooming  flowers,  to  grace  thy  braided  hair. 

And  if  his  attachment  to  her  suggested  that  beau- 
tiful description  of  domestic  happiness  with  which 
his  Spring  concludes, — 

But  happy  they,  the  happiest  of  their  kind, 
Whom  gentler  stars  unite,  &c. 

who  would  not  grieve  at  the  destiny  which  denied 
to  Thomson  pleasures  he  could  so  eloquently  de- 
ecribe,  and  so  feelingly  appreciate  V 

Truth,  however,  obliges  me  to  add  one  little  trait. 
A  lady  who  did  not  know  Thomson  personally,  but 
was  enchanted  with  his  "  Seasons,"  said  she  could 
gather  from  his  works  three  parts  of  his  character, 
— that  he  was  an  amiable  lover,  an  excellent  swiiu« 


HAMMOND.  483 

aior,  and  extremely  abstemious.  Savage,  who 
knew  the  poet,  could  not  help  laughing  at  this  pic- 
ture of  a  man  who  scarcely  knew  what  love  was ; 
who  shrunk  from  cold  water  like  a  cat ;  and  whose 
habits  were  those  of  a  good-natured  bon  vivant, 
who  indulged  himself  in  every  possible  luxury, 
which  could  be  attained  without  trouble  !  He  also 
died  unmarried. 

Hammond,  the  favorite  of  our  sentimental  great- 
grandmothers,  whose  "  Love  Elegies  "  lay  on  the 
toilettes  of  the  Harriet  Bryons  and  Sophia  West- 
erns of  the  last  century,  was  an  amiable  youth, 
"  very  melancholy  and  gentlemanlike,"  who  being 
appointed  equerry  to  Prince  Frederic,  cast  his  eyes 
un  Miss  Dashwood,  bedchamber  woman  to  the 
Princess,  and  she  became  his  Delia.  The  lady  was 
deaf  to  his  pastoral  strains  ;  and  though  it  has  been 
said  that  she  rejected  him  on  account  of  the  small- 
ness  of  his  fortune,  I  do  not  see  the  necessity  of 
believing  this  assertion,  or  of  sympathizing  in  the 
dull  invectives  and  monotonous  lamentations  of  the 
slighted  lover.  Miss  Dashwood  never  married,  and 
was,  I  believe,  one  of  the  maids  of  honor  to  the 
late  Queen. 

Thus  the  six  poets,  who,  in  the  history  of  our 
literature,  fill  up  the  period  which  intervened  be- 
tween the  death  of  Pope  and  the  first  publication i 
of  Burns  and  Cowper — all  died  old  bachelors ' 


484  FRENCH   POETS. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

FRENCH   POETS. 
VOLTAIRE  AND  MADAME  DU  CHATELET. 

IF  we  take  a  rapid  view  of  French  literature, 
Prom  the  reign  of  Louis  the  Fourteenth,  down  to 
the  Revolution,  we  are  dazzled  by  the  record  of 
brilliant  and  celebrated  women,  who  protected  or 
cultivated  letters,  and  obtained  the  homage  of  men 
of  talent.  There  was  Ninon ;  and  there  was  Ma- 
dame de  Rambouillet ;  the  one  galante,  the  other 
precieuse.  One  had  her  St.  Evremond ;  the  other 
her  Voiture.  Madame  de  Sabliere  protected  La 
Fontaine ;  Madame  de  Montespan  protected  Mo- 
liere ;  Madame  de  Maintenon  protected  Racine.  It 
was  all  patronage  and  protection  on  one  side,  and 
dependence  and  servility  on  the  other.  Then  we 
have  the  intrigante  Madame  de  Tencin  ;  *  the  good- 
natured,  but  rather  bornee  Madame  de  Geoffrin ; 
the  Duchesse  de  Maine,  who  held  a  little  court  of 
bel  esprits  and  small  poets  at  S9eaux,  and  is  best 
known  as  the  patroness  of  Mademoiselle  de  Lau- 

*  Madame  de  Tencin  used  to  call  the  men  of  letters  she  as- 
sembled at  her  house  "  mes  betes,"  and  her  society  went  by  the 
name  of  Madame  de  Tencin's  menagerie.  Her  advice  to  Mau 
montel,  when  a  young  man,  was  excellent.  See  his  Memoirs, 
vol.  i 


MADAME    DU    CHATELET.  485 

nay.  Madame  d'Epinay,  the  amie  of  Griinm,  and 
the  patroness  of  Rousseau ;  the  clever,  selfish-, 
witty,  ever  ennuyee,  never  ennuyeuse  Madame  du 
Deflfand ;  the  ardent,  talented  Mademoiselle  de 
''Espinasse,  who  would  certainly  have  been  a 
poetess,  if  she  had  not  been  a  philosopheress  and  a 
Frenchwoman  :  Madame  Neckar,  the  patroness  of 
Marmontel  and  Thomas : — e  tutte  quante.  If  we 
look  over  the  light  French  literature  of  those  times, 
we  find  an  inconceivable  heap  of  vers  galans,  and 
jolis  couplets,  licentious  songs,  pretty,  well-turned 
compliments,  and  most  graceful  badinage ;  but  we 
can  discover  the  names  of  only  two  distinguished 
women,  who  have  the  slightest  pretensions  to  a 
poetical  celebrity,  derived  from  the  genius,  the  at- 
tachment, and  the  fame  of  their  lovers.  These 
were  Madame  du  Chatelet,  Voltaire's  "  Immortelle 
Emilie  : "  and  Madame  d'Houdetot,  the  Doris  of 
Saint  Lambert. 

Gabrielle-Emilie  le  Tonnelier  de  Breteuil,  was 
the  daughter  of  the  Baron  de  Breteuil,  and  born 
in  1706.  At  an  early  age  she  was  taken  from  her 
convent,  and  married  to  the  Marquis  du  Chatelet ; 
and  her  life  seems  thenceforward  to  have  been  di- 
vided between  two  passions,  or  rather  two  pursuit? 
rarely  combined, — love,  and  geometry.  Her  tutor 
in  both  is  said  to  have  been  the  famous  mathe- 
matician Clairaut ;  and  between  them  they  rendered 
geometry  so  much  the  fashion  at  one  time,  that 
all  the  women,  who  were  distinguished  either  for 
rank  or  beauty,  thought  it  indispensable  to  have  a 


486  FRENCH   POETS. 

geometrician  in  their  train.  The  •'  Poetes  de 
Societe "  hid  for  awhile  their  diminished  heads, 
or  were  obliged  to  study  geometry  pour  se  mettre  a 
la  mode*  Her  friendship  with  Voltaire  began  to 
take  a  serious  aspect,  when  she  was  about  eight- 
and-twenty,  and  he  was  about  forty ;  'he  is  said  to 
have  succeeded  that  roue  par  excellence,  the  Due 
de  Richelieu,  in  her  favor. 

This  woman  might  have  dealt  in  mathematics, — 
might  have  inked  her  fingers  with  writing  treatises 
on  the  Newtonian  philosophy ;  she  might  have  sat 
up  till  five  in  the  morning,  solving  problems  and 
calculating  eclipses  ; — and  yet  have~possessed  ami- 
able, elevated,  generous,  and  attractive  qualities, 
which  would  have  thrown  a  poetical  interest  round 
her  character ;  moreover,  considering  the  horribly 
corrupt  state  of  French  society  at  that  time,  she 
might  have  been  pardoned  "  une  vertu  de  moins," 
if  her  power  over  a  great  genius  had  been  exer- 
cised to  some  good  purpose ; — to  restrain  his  licen- 
tiousness, to  soften  his  pungent  and  merciless  satire, 
and  prevent  the  frequent  prostitution  of  his  admir- 
able and  versatile  talents.  But  a  female  skeptic, 
profligate  from  temperament  and  principle ;  a  ter- 
magant, "  qui  voulait  furieusement  tout  ce  qu'elle 
voulait ; "  a  woman  with  all  the  suffisance  of  a 
pedant,  and  all  the  exigence,  caprices,  and  frivolity 
of  a  fine  lady, — grands  dieux  !  what  a  heroine  foi 
poetry  ! 

*  Correspondence  de  Grimm,  vol.  ii.  421. 


MADAME    DU    CHATELET.  48? 

To  a  taste  for  Newton  and  the  stars,  and  geom« 
Btry  and  algebra,  Madame  du  Chatelet  added  some 
other  tastes  not  quite  so  sublime ; — a  great  taste  for 
bijoux — and  pretty  gimcracks — and  old  china — and 
watches — and  rings — and  diamonds — and  snuff- 
boxes— and — puppet-shows !  *  and,  now  and  then, 
une  petite  affaire  du  cceur,  by  way  of  variety. 

Tout  lui  plait,  tout  convient  k  son  vaste  genie : 
Les  livres,  les  bijoux,  les  compas,  les  pompons, 
Les  vers,  les  dinmants,  le  biribi,f  1'optique, 
L'algebre,  les  soupers,  le  latin,  lesjupons, 
L'ope'ra,  les  proces,  le  bal,  et  la  physique ! 

This  "Minerve  de  la  France,  la  respectable 
Emilie,"  did  not  resemble  Minerva  in  all  her  at- 
tributes ;  nor  was  she  satisfied  with  a  succession  of 
lovers.  The  whole  history  of  her  liaison  with 
Voltaire,  is  enough  to  put  en  deroute  all  poetry, 
and  all  sentiment.  With  her  imperious  temper 
and  bitter  tongue,  and  his  extreme  irritability,  no 
wonder  they  should  have  des  scenes  terribles.% 
Marmontel  says  they  were  often  a  couteaux  tires ; 
and  this,  not  metaphorically  but  literally.  On  one 

*  Je  ris  plus  que  personne  aux  marionettes ;  et  j'avoue  qu» 
ttne  boite,  une  porcelaine,  un.  meuble  nouveau,  sont  pour  moi 
une  vraie  .ouissance. —  CEuvres  de  Madame  du  Chatelet — Traitd 
ie  Bonheui 

t  The  then  fashionable  game  at  cards. 

^Voltaire  once  said  of  hor,  "  C'est  une  fern  me  terrible,  qut  n'a 
point  de  flexibilite  dans  le  coeur,  quoiqu'clle  1'ait  bon  "  This 
hardness  of  temper,  this  volontc  tyrannique,  this  cold  detenni 
nation  never  to  yield  a  point,  were  worse  than  a1!  her  violence. 


488  FRENCH   POETS. 

occasion,  Voltaire  happened  to  criticize  some 
couplets  she  had  written  for  Madame  de  Luxem- 
bourg. "  L'Amante  de  Newton  "  *  could  calculate 
eclipses,  but  she  could  not  make  verses ;  and,  prob- 
ably, for  that  reason,  she  was  most  particularly 
jealous  of  all  censure,  while  she  criticized  Voltaire 
without  manners  or  mercy;  and  he  endured  it, 
sometimes  with  marvellous  patience. 

A  dispute  was  now  the  consequence  ;  both  be- 
came furious ;  and  at  length  Voltaire  snatched  up 
a  knife,  and  brandishing  it  exclaimed,  "  ne  me  re- 
garde  done  pas  avec  tes  yeux  hagards  et  louches ! " 
After  such  a  scene  as  this,  one  would  imagine  that 
l<ove  must  have  spread  his  light  wings  and  fled  for- 
ever. Could  Emilie  ever  have  forgiven  those 
words,  or  Voltaire  have  forgotten  the  look  that  pro- 
voked them? 

But  the  mobilite  of  his  mind  was  one  of  the  most 
extraordinary  parts  of  his  character,  and  he  was 
not  more  irascible  than  he  was  easily  appeased. 
Madame  du  Chatelet  maintained  her  power  over 
him  for  twenty  years ;  during  five  of  which  they 
resided  in  her  chateau  at  Cirey,  under  the  coun 
tenance  of  her  husband  ;  he  was  a  good  sort  of  man, 
but  seems  to  have  been  considered  by  these  two 
geniuses  and  their  guests  as  a  complete  nonentity 
He  was  "  Le  bon-liomme,  le  vilain  petit  1  richeteau? 
whom  it  was  a  task  to  speak  to,  and  a  penance  to 
amuse.  Every  day,  after  coffee,  Monsieur  rose  from 
his  table  with  all  the  docility  imaginable,  leaving  Vol- 

*  The  title  which  Voltaire  gave  her. 


MADAME    DU    CHATELET.  489 

taire  and  Madame  to  recite  verses,  translate  New- 
ton, philosophize,  dispute,  and  to  do  the  honors  of 
Cirey  to  the  brilliant  society  who  had  assembled 
under  his  roof. 

While  the  boudoir,  the  laboratory,  and  the  sleep- 
ing room  of  the  lady,  and  the  study  arid  gallery 
appropriated  to  Voltaire,  were  furnished  with  Ori- 
ental luxury  and  splendor,  and  shone  with  gilding, 
drapery,  pictures,  and  baubles,  the  lord  of  the 
mansion  and  the  guests  were  destined  to  starve  in 
half-furnished  apartments,  from  which  the  wind 
and  the  rain  were  scarcely  excluded.* 

In  1 748,  Voltaire  and  Madame  du  Chatelet  paid 
a  visit  to  the  Court  of  Stanislaus,  the  ex-king  of 
Poland,  at  Luneville,  and  took  M.  du  Chatelet  in 
their  train.  There  Madame  du  Chatelet  was 
seized  with  a  passion  for  Saint  Lambert,  the  author 
of  the  "  Saisons,"  who  was  at  least  ten  or  twelve 
years  younger  then  herself,  and  then  a  jeune  mili- 
laire,  only  admired  for  his  fine  figure  and  pretty 
rers  de  societe.  Voltaire,  it  is  said,  was  extremely 
jealous  ;  but  his  jealousy  did  not  prevent  him  from 
addressing  some  very  elegant  verses  to  his  hand- 
some rival,  in  which  he  compliments  him  gaily  on 
the  good  graces  of  the  lady. 

Saint  Lambert,  ce  n'est  que  pour  toi 
Que  ces  belles  fleurs  sont  ^closes, 

*  "Vie  privee  de  Voltaire  et  de  Madame  du  Chatelet,''  in  a  se 
nes  of  ktters,  written  by  Madame  de  Graffigny  during  her  stay  at 
Cirey.  The  details  in  these  letters  are  exceedingly  amusing,  but 
the  style  so  diffuse,  that  it  is  scarcely  possible  to  make  extracts. 


190  FRENCH    POETS. 

C'est  ta  main  qui  cueille  los  roses, 
Et  les  Opines  sont  pour  moi !  * 

Some  months  afterwards,  Madame  du  Ch&telet 
died  in  childbirth,  in  her  forty-fourth  year. 

Voltaire  was  so  overwhelmed  by  this  loss,  that 
he  set  off  for  Paris  immediately  pour  se  dissiper. 
Marmontel  has  given  us  a  most  ludicrous  account 
of  a  visit  of  condolence  he  paid  him  on  this  occa- 
sion. He  found  Voltaire  absolutely  drowned  in 
tears ;  at  every  fresh  burst  of  sorrow,  he  called  on 
Marmontel  to  sympathize  with  him.  "  Helas  !  j'ai 
perdu  mon  illustre  amie !  Ah  !  ah !  je  suis  au 
desespoir ! " — Then  exclaiming  against  Saint  Lam- 
bert, whom  he  accused  as  the  cause  of  the  catas- 
trophe— "  Ah !  mon  ami !  il  me  1'a  tuee,  le  brutal !" 
while  Marmontel,  who  had  often  heard  him  abuse 
his  '•'•sublime  Emilie"  in  no  measured  terms,  as 
"  une  furie,  attachee  h  ses  pas,"  hid  his  face  with 
his  handkerchief  in  pretended  sympathy,  but  in 
reality  to  conceal  his  irrepressible  smiles.  In  the 
midst  of  this  scene  of  despair,  some  ridiculous  idea 
or  story  striking  Voltaire's  vivid  fancy,  threw  him 
into  fits  of  laughter,  and  some  time  elapsed  before 
he  recollected  that  he  was  inconsolable. 

The  death  of  Madame  du  Chatelet,  the  circum- 
stances which  attended  it,  and  the  celebrity  of 
herself  and  her  lover,  combined  to  cause  a  great 
sensation.  No  elegies  indeed  appeared  on  the  oc- 
casion,— "  no  tears  eternal  that  embalm  the  dead  ;  * 

*  Epltrc  i  Saint  Lambert 


MADAME     DU     CHA1ELET.  49l 

but  a  shower  of  epigrams  and  bon  mots — some 
exquisitely  witty  and  malicious.  The  story  of  hei 
ring,  in  which  Voltaire  and  her  husband  each  ex- 
pected to  find  his  own  portrait,  and  which  on  being 
opened,  was  found,  to  the  utter  discomfiture  .of 
both,  to  contain  that  of  Saint  Lambert,  is  well 
known. 

If  we  may  judge  from  her  picture,  Madame  du 
Chatolet  must  have  been  extremely  pretty.  Her 
eyes  were  fine  and  piercing ;  her  features  delicate, 
with  a  good  deal  of  finesse  and  intelligence  in  their 
expression.  But  her  countenance,  like  her  char- 
acter, was  devoid  of  interest.  She  had  great  power 
of  mental  abstraction ;  and  on  one  occasion  she 
went  through  a  most  complicated  calculation  of 
figures  in  her  head,  while  she  played  and  won  a 
game  at  piquet.  She  could  be  graceful  and  fasci- 
nating, but  her  manners  were,  in  general,  extremely 
disagreeable ;  and  her  parade  of  learning,  her 
affectation,  her  egotism,  her  utter  disregard  of  the 
comforts,  feelings,  and  opinions  of  others,  are  well 
portrayed  in  two  or  three  brilliant  strokes  of  sar- 
casm from  the  pen  of  Madame  de  Stae'l.*  She 
even  turns  her  philosophy  into  ridicule.  "  Elle  fait 
actuellement  la  revue  de  ses  Principes ;  f  c'est  un 
exercise  qu'elle  reitere  chaque  annee,  sans  quoi 
Us  pourroient  s'echapper;  et  peut-etre  s'en  aller  si 
loin  qu'elle  n'en  retrouverait  pas  un  seul.  Je  crois 

*  Madlle  deLaunay:  it  has  become  necessary  to  distinguish 
between  two  celebrated  women  bearing  the  same  name,  at  leasl 
ta  sound. 

*  "  IAS  principes  de  la  philosophic  de  Newtcn.' 


492  FRENCH    POETS. 

bien  que  sa  tete  est  pour  eux  une  maison  de  force^ 
et  non  pas  le  lieu  de  leur  naissance."  * 

That  Madame  du  Chatelet  was  a  woman  of  ex- 
traordinary talent,  and  that  her  progress  in  abstract 
sciences  was  uncommon,  and  even  unique  at  that 
time,  at  least  among  her  own  sex,  is  beyond  a 
doubt ;  but  her  learned  treatises  on  Newton,  and 
the  nature  of  fire,  are  now  utterly  forgotten.  We 
have  since  had  a  Mrs.  Marcet ;  and  we  have  read 
of  Gaetana  Agnesi,  who  was  professor  of  mathemat- 
ics in  the  University  of  Padua;  two  women  who, 
uniting  to  the  rarest  philosophical  acquirements, 
gentleness  and  virtue,  have  needed  no  poet  to  im- 
mortalize them. 

Of  the  numerous  poems  which  Voltaire  addressed 
to  Madame  du  Chatelet  the  Epistle  beginning 


*  V.  Correspondence  de  Madame  de  Deffand.  In  another  letter 
from  Sceaux,  Madame  de  Stae'l  adds  the  following  clever,  satirical, 
— but  most  characteristic  picture : — 

"En  tout  cas  on  vous  garde  un  bon  appaftement :  c'est  celui 
dont  Madame  du  Chatelet,  apres  une  revue  exacte  de  toute  la 
niaison,  s'etait  emparee.  II  y  aura  un  peu  moins  de  meubles 
^u'elle  n'y  en  avait  mis ;  car  elle  avait  devaste  tous  ceux  par  ou 
elle  avait  passe  pour  garnir  celui-la.  On  y  a  trouv6  six  ou  sept 
tables;  il  lui  en  faut  de  toutes  les  grandeurs;  d'immenses  pour 
etaler  ses  papiers,  de  solides  pour  soutenir  son  necessaire,  :le 
ylus  legeres  pour  ses  pompons,  pour  ses  bijoux;  et  cette  belle 
ordonnance  ne  1'a  pas  garantie  d'un  accident  pareil  &  celui  qui 
arrive  i  Phillippe  II.  quand,  apres  avoir  passe  la  nuit  £  ecrire, 
on  repandit  une  bouteille  d'encre  sur  ses  dep&ches.  La  dame  ne 
B'est  pas  piquee  d'imiter  la  moderation  de  ce  prince1;  aussi 
n'avait-il  ecrit  que  sur  des  affaires  d'etat;  et  ce  qu'on  lui  a 
barbouille,  c'etait  de  1'algebre,  bien  plus  difficile  a  remettre  au 
net." 


MADAME    DU    CHATKLET.  493 

Tu  m'appelles  &  toi,  vaste  et  puissant  ge"nie, 
Minerve  de  la  France,  immortelle  Emilie, 

is  a  chef-d'oeuvre,  and  contains  some  of  the  finest 
lines  he  ever  wrote.  The  Epistle  to  her  on  calumny, 
written  to  console  her  for  the  abuse  and  ridicule 
which  her  abstractions  and  indiscretions  had  pro- 
voked, begins  with  these  beautiful  lines — 

Ecoutez-moi,  respectable  Emilie : 
Vous  etes  belle;  ainsi  done  la  mottle* 
Du  genre  humain  sera  votre  ennemie : 
Vous  possddez  un  sublime  gdnie; 
On  vous  craindra;  votre  tendre  amiti<5 
Est  confiante ;  et  vous  serez  trahie : 
Votre  vertu  dans  sa  demarche  unie, 
Simple  et  sans  fard,  n'a  point  sacrific" 
A  nos  ddvots ;  craignez  la  calomnie. 

With  that  famous  ring,  from  which  he  had  after- 
wards the  mortification  to  discover  that  his  own 
portrait  had  been  banished  to  make  room  for  that 
of  Saint  Lambert,  he  sent  her  this  elegant  quatrain 

Barier  grava  ces  traits  distinct  pour  vos  yeux; 
Avec  quelque  plaisir  daignez  les  reconnoitre: 
Les  votres  dans  mon  coeur  furent  graves  bien  mieux, 
Mais  ce  fut  par  un  plus  grand  maitre. 

The  heroine  of  the  famous  Epistle,  known  as 
44  Les  TU  et  les  vous,"  (Madame  de  Gouverne,) 
was  one  of  Voltaire's  earliest  loves ;  and  he  wa? 
oassionately  attached  to  her.  They  were  separated 


494  FBENCH   POETS. 

in  the  world : — she  went  through  the  usual  routine 
of  a  French  woman's  existence, — I  mean,  of  a 
French  woman  I'ancien  regime. 

Quelques  plaisirs  dans  la  jeunesse, 

Des  soins  dans  la  maternite, 
Tous  les  malheurs  dans  la  vieillesse, 

Puis  la  peur  de  reternite". 

She  was  first  dissipated ;  then  an  esprit  fort 
then  tres  devote.  In  obedience  to  her  confessor, 
she  discarded,  one  after  the  other,  her  rouge,  her 
ribbons,  and  the  presents  and  billets-doux  of  her 
lovers ;  but  no  remonstrances  could  induce  her  to 
give  up  Voltaire's  picture.  When  he  returned 
from  exile  in  1778,  he  went  to  pay  a  visit  to  his  old 
love ;  they  had  not  met  for  fifty  years,  and  they 
now  gazed  on  each  other  in  silent  dismay.  He 
looked,  I  suppose,  like  the  dried  mummy  of  an 
ape  :  she,  like  a  withered  sorciere.  The  same  even- 
ing she  sent  him  back  his  portrait,  which  she  had 
hitherto  refused  to  part  with.  Nothing  remained 
to  shed  illusion  over  the  past ;  she  had  beheld, 
even  before  the  last  terrible  proof — 

What  dust  we  doat  on,  when  'tis  man  we  love. 

And  Voltaire,  on  his  side,  was  not  less  dismayed 
by  his  visit.  On  returning  from  her,  he  exclaimed, 
with  a  shrug  of  mingled  disgust  and  horror,  "  Ah, 
mes  amis  !  je  viens  de  passer  k  1'autre  bord  dy 
Cocyte  ! "  It  was  not  thus  that  Cowper  felt  for  hi? 


MADAME    D'HOUDETOT.  49h 

Mary,  when  "  her  auburn  locks  were  changed  to 
gray : "  but  it  is  almost  an  insult  to  the  memory 
of  true  tenderness  to  mention  them  both  in  the 
same  page. 

To  enumerate  other  women  who  have  been  cel- 
ebrated by  Voltaire,  would  be  to  give  a  list  of  all 
the  beautiful  and  distinguished  women  of  France 
for  half  a  century ;  from  the  Duchesse  de  Riche- 
lieu and  Madame  de  Luxembourg,  down  to  Camargo 
the  dancer,  and  Clairon  and  le  Couvreur  the  ac- 
tresses :  but  I  can  find  no  name  of  any  poetical 
fame  or  interest  among  them  :  nor  can  I  conceive 
any  thing  more  revolting  than  the  history  of  French 
society  and  manners  during  the  Regency  and  the 
whole  of  the  reign  of  Louis  the  Fifteenth. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

FRENCH    POETRY,   CONTINUED. 
MADAME  D'HOUDETOT. 

SAINT  LAMBERT,  who  seemed  destined  to  rival 
greater  men  than  himself,  after  carrying  off  Ma- 
dame du  Chatelet  from  Voltaire,  became  the  favored 
lover  of  the  Comtesse  d'Houdetot,  Rousseau's  So- 
phie ;  she  for  whom  the  philosopher  first  felt  love, 


*96  FRENCH    POETS. 

"dann  toute  son  energie,  toutes  sesfureurs" — but  in 
vain. 

Saint  Lambert  is  allowed  to  be  an  elegant  poet : 
his  Salmons  were  once  as  popular  in  France,  as 
Thomson's  Seasons  are  here  ;  but  they  have  not 
retained  their  popularity.  The  French  poem, 
though  in  many  parts  imitated  from  the  English,  is 
as  unlike  it 'as  possible:  correct,  polished,  elegant, 
full  of  beautiful  lines, — of  what  the  French  call  dt 
beaux  vcrs, — and  yet  excessively  dull.  It  is  equally 
impossible  to  find  fault  with  it  in  parts,  or  endure 
it  as  a  whole.  Une  petite  pointe  de  verve  would 
have  rendered  it  delightful ;  but  the  total  want  of 
enthusiasm  in  the  writer  freezes  the  reader.  As 
Madame  du  Deffand  said,  in  humorous  mockery  of 
his  monotonous  harmony,  "  Sans  les  oiseaux,  lea 
ruisseaux,  les  hameaux,  les  ormeaux,  et  leur  ra- 
meaux,  il  aurait  bien  peu  de  choses  k  dire  ! " 

Madame  d'Houdetot  was  the  Doris  to  whom  the 
Seasons  are  dedicated  :  and  the  opening  passage 
addressed  to  her,  is  extremely  admired  by  French 
critics. 

Et  toi,  qui  m'as  choisi  pour  embellir  ma  vie, 
Doux  repos  de  mon  coeur,  aimable  et  tendre  amie ! 
Toi,  qui  sais  de  nos  champs  admirer  les  beautes : 
De"robe-toi,  Doris!  au  luxe  des  cites, 
Aux  arts  dont  tu  jouis,  au  monde  ou.  tu  sais  plaire; 
Le  printemps  te  rappelle  au  vallon  solitaire ; 
Heureux  si  pres  de  toi  je  chante  a  son  retour, 
Ses  dons  et  ses  plaisirs,  la  campagne  et  1'amour ! 

Sophie  de  la  Briche,  afterwards  Madame  d'Hou- 


MADAME     D'HOUL-ETOr.  497 

detot,  was  the  daughter  of  a  rich  fermier  general ; 
and  destined,  of  course,  to  a  marriage  de  eonve- 
nance,  she  was  united  very  young  to  the  Comte 
d'Houdetot,  an  officer  of  rank  in  the  army ;  a  man 
who  was  allowed  by  his  friends  to  be  tres  peu  amia- 
ble, and  whom  Madame  d'Epinay,  who  hated  him, 
called  vilain  and  insupportable.  He  was  too  good- 
natured  to  make  his  wife  absolutely  miserable,  but 
un  bonheur  a  faire  mourir  (T  ennui,  was  not  ex- 
actly adapted  to  the  disposition  of  Sophie  ;  and 
there  was  no  principle  within,  no  restraint  without, 
no  support,  no  counsel,  no  example,  to  guide  her 
conduct  or  guard  her  against  temptation. 

The  power  by  which  Madame  d'Houdetot  cap- 
tivated the  gay,  handsome,  dissipated  Saint  Lam- 
bert, and  kindled  into  a  blaze  the  passion?  or  the 
imagination  of  Rousseau,  was  not  that  of  beauty. 
Her  face  was  plain  and  slightly  marked  with  the 
smallpox ;  her  eyes  were  not  good ;  she  was  ex- 
tremely short-sighted,  which  gave  to  her  coun- 
tenance and  address  an  appearance  of  uncertainty 
and  timidity ;  her  figure  was  mignonne,  and  in  all 
ner  movements  there  was  an  indescribable  mixture 
of  grace  and  awkwardness.  The  charm  by  which 
this  woman  seized  and  kept  the  hearts,  not  of  lovers 
only,  but  of  friends,  was  a  character  the  very  re- 
verse of  that  of  Madame  du  Chatelet,  who  would 
have  deemed  it  an  insult  to  be  compared  to  her 
either  in  mind  or  beauty : — the  absence  of  all  pre- 
tension, all  coquetry;  the  total  surrender  of  her 
own  feelings,  thoughts,  interests,  where  another 


498  FRENCH    POETS. 

was  concerned ;  the  frankness  which  verged  on  gid 
diness  and  imprudence  ;  the  temper  which  nothing 
could  ruffle ;  the  warm  kindness  which  nothing 
could  chill ;  the  bounding  spirit  of  gayety,  which 
nothing  could  subdue, — these  qualities  rendered 
Madame  d'Houdetot  an  attaching  and  interesting 
creature,  to  the  latest  moment  of  her  long  life. 
"  Mon  Dieu !  que  j'ai  d'impatience  de  voir  dix  ans 
de  plus  sur  la  tete  de  cette  femme ! "  exclaimeu 
her  sister-in-law,  Madame  d'Epinay,  when  she  saw 
her  at  the  age  of  twenty.  But  at  the  age  of  eighty, 
Madame  d'Houdetot  was  just  as  much  a  child  as 
ever, — "  aussi  vive,  aussi  enfant,  aussi  gaie,  aussi 
distraite,  aussi  bonne  et  tres  bonne;  "*  in  spite  of 
wrinkles,  sorrows,  and  frailties,  she  retained,  in  ex- 
treme old  age,  the  gayety,  the  tenderness,  the  con- 
fiding simplicity,  though  not  the  innocence  of  early 
youth. 

Her  liaison  with  Saint  Lambert  continued  fifty 
years,  nor  was  she  ever  suspected  of  any  other  in- 
discretion. During  this  time  he  contrived  to  make 
her  as  wretched  as  a  woman  of  her  disposition 
could  be  made ;  and  the  elasticity  of  her  spirits 
did  not  prevent  her  from  being  acutely  sensible  to 
pain,  and  alive  to  unkindness.  Saint  Lambert, 
from  being  her  lover,  became  her  tyrant.  He 
behaved  with  a  peevish  jealousy,  a  petulance,  a 
bitterness,  which  sometimes  drove  her  beyond  the 
bounds  of  a  woman's  patience  ;  and  whenever  this 
happened,  the  accommodating  husband,  M.  d'Hou- 

*  Memoires  et  Txsttres  de  Madame  d'Epinay,  torn,  i    p.  95- 


MADAME    DHOUDETOT.  499 

Jetot,  would  interfere  to  reconcile  the  lovers,  and 
plead  for  the  recall  of  the  offender. 

When  Saint  Lambert's  health  became  utterly 
broken,  she  watched  over  hira  with  a  patient  ten- 
derness, unwearied  by  all  his  exigence,  and  un- 
provoked bv^  his  detestable  temper ;  he  had  a  house 
near  hers  in  the  valley  of  Montmorenci,  and  lived 
on  perfectly  good  terms  with  her  husband.  I 
must  add  one  trait,  which,  however  absurd,  and 
scarcely  credible,  it  may  sound  in  our  sober,  Eng- 
lish ears,  is  yet  true.  M.  and  Madame  d'Houdetot 
gave  a  fete  at  Eaubonne,  to  celebrate  the  fiftieth 
anniversary  of  their  marriage.  Sophie  was  then 
nearly  seventy,  but  played  her  part,  as  the  heroine 
of  the  day,  with  all  the  grace  and  vivacity  of  seven- 
teen. On  this  occasion,  the  lover  and  the  husband 
chose,  for  the  first  time  in  their  lives,  to  be  jealous 
of  each  other,  and  exhibited,  to  the  amusement  and 
astonishment  of  the  guests,  a  scene,  which  was  for 
some  time  the  talk  of  all  Paris. 

Saint  Lambert  died  in  1805.  After  his  death, 
Madame  d'Houdetot  was  seized  with  sentimental 
tendresse  for  M.  Sonuriva,*  and  continued  to  send 
him  bouquets  and  billets-doux  to  the  end  of  her 
life.  She  died  about  1815. 

To  her  singular  power  of  charming,  Madame 
d'Houdetot  added  talents  of  no  common  order, 
which,  though  never  cultivated  with  any  perse- 

*  M.  Somariva  is  well  known  to  all  who  have  visited  Paris,  for 
his  fine  collection  of  pictures,  and  particularly  as  the  possessoi 
if  Canova's  famous  Magdalen. 


500  FRENCH    POETS. 

verance,  now  and  then  displayed,  or  rather  dis* 
cloned  themselves  unexpectedly,  adding  surprise  to 
pleasure.  She  was  a  musician,  a  poetess,  a  wit ; — 
but  every  thing,  "  par  la  grace  de  Dieu," — and  as 
if  unconsciously  and  involuntarily.  All  Saint  Lam- 
bert's poetry  together  is  not  worth  the  little  song 
she  composed  for  him  on  his  departure  for  the 
army : — 

L' Amant  que  j' adore, 

Pret  a  me  quitter, 
D'on  instant  encore 

Voudrait  profiler: 
Fe"licite"  vaine! 

Qu'on  ne  peut  saisir, 
Trop  pres  de  la  peine 

Pour  etre  un  plaisir!* 

it  is  to  Madame  d'Houdetot  that  Lord  Byron 
alludes  in  a  striking  passage  of  the  third  canto  of 
Childe  Harold,  beginning 

Here  the  self-torturing  sophist,  wild  Rousseau,  f  &c. 

And  apropos  to  Rousseau,  I  shall  merely  observe 
that  there  is,  and  can  be  but  one  opinion  with  re- 
gard to  his  conduct  in  the  affair  of  Madame  d'Hou- 
detot :  it  was  abominable.  She  thought,  as  every 
one  who  ever  was  connected  with  that  man,  found 
sooner  or  later,  that  he  was  all  made  up  of  genius? 
and  imagination,  and  as  destitute  Df  heart  as  of 

*  See  Lady  Morgan's  France,  and  the  Biographic  Universelle 
t  Stanza  \  7,  and  more  particularly  stanza  79. 


MADAME  D'HOUDETOT.  501 

moral  principle.  I  can  never  think  of  his  char- 
acter, but  as  of  something  at  once  admirable,  por- 
tentous, and  shocking ;  the  most  great,  most  gifted, 
most  wretched  ; — worst,  meanest,  maddest  of  -man- 
kind ! 

*  *  *  * 

Madame  du  Chatelet  and  Madame  d'Houdetot 
must  for  the  present  be  deemed  sufficient  specimens 
of  French  poetical  heroines ;  it  were  easy  to  pursu« 
the  subject  farther,  but  it  would  lead  to  a  field  of 
discussion  and  illustration,  which  I  would  rathei 
decline.* 

Is  it  not  singular. that  in  a  country  which  was  the 
cradle,  if  not  the  birthplace  of  modern  poetry  and 
romance,  the  language,  the  literature,  and  the 
women,  should  be  so  essentially  and  incurably  pro- 
saic ?  The  muse  of  French  poetry  never  swept  a 
lyre ;  she  grinds  a  barrel-organ  in  her  serious 
moods,  and  she  scrapes  a  fiddle  in  her  lively  ones ; 
and  as  for  the  distinguished  Frenchwomen,  whose 
memory  and  whose  characters  are  blended  with 
the  literature,  and  connected  with  the  great  names 
of  their  country, — they  are  often  admirable,  and 

*  In  one  of  Madame  de  Genlis's  prettiest  Tales — "  Les  preven- 
tions d'une  femme,"  there  is  the  following  observation,  as  full 
of  truth  as  of  feminine  propriety.  I  trust  that  the  principle  it 
Inculcates  has  been  kept  in  view  through  the  whole  of  this  little 
work. 

"  II  y  a  plus  de  pudeur  et  de  dignite  dans  la  douce,  indulgence 
qui  semble  ignorer  les  anecdotes  scandaleuses  ou  du  moms,  le< 
re>oquer  en  doute,  que  dans  le  dedain  qui  en  retrace  le  souvenir, 
?t  qui  s'erigft  publiquement  en  juge  inflexible." 


M)2  HEROINES    OF    MODERN    POETRY. 

sometimes  interesting ;  but  with  all  their  fascina- 
tions, their  charms,  their  esprit,  their  graces,  their 
amab'dite  and  their  sensibilile,  it  was  not  in  the  power, 
of  the  gods  or  their  lovers  to  make  them  poetical. 


CONCLUSION. 

HEROINES   OF   MODERN   POETRY. 

Heureuse  la  Beaut6  que  le  poete  adore ! 
Heureux  le  nom  qu'il  a  ehaute ! — DB  LAMABTIBTE. 

IT  will  be  allowed,  I  think,  that  women  have 
reason  to  be  satisfied  with  the  rank  tljey  hold  in 
modern  poetry ;  and  that  the  homage  which  has 
been  addressed  to  them,  either  oirectly  and  indi- 
vidually, or  paid  indirectly  and  generally,  in  the 
beautiful  characters  and  portraits  drawn  of  them> 
ought  to  satisfy  equally  female  sentiment  and  female 
vanity.  From  the  half  ethereal  forms  which  float 
amid  moonbeams  and  gems,  and  odors  and  flowers, 
along  the  dazzling  pages  of  Lalla  Rookh,  down  to 
Phoebe  Dawson,  in  the  Parish  Register:*  from 
that  loveliest  gem  of  polished  life,  the  young 
Aurora  of  Lord  Byron,  down  to  Wordsworth's 
poor  Margaret  weeping  in  her  deserted  cottage  ff 
all  the  various  aspects  between  these  wide  extremes 

*f!rnbbe 's  Poems.  t  See  the  Excursion. 


HEROINES    OF    MODERN    POETRY.  505 

of  character  and  situation,  under  which  we  have 
been  exhibited,  have  been,  with  few  exceptions, 
just  and  favorable  to  our  sex. 

In  the  literature  of  the  classical  ages,  we  were 
lebased  into  mere  servants  of  pleasure,  alternately 
the  objects  of  loose  incense  or  coarse  invective. 
Jn  the  poetry  of  the  Gothic  ages,  we  all  rank  as 
queens.  In  the  succeeding  period,  when  the  Pla- 
tonic philosophy  was  oddly  mixed  up  with  the 
institutions  of  chivalry,  we  were  exalted  into 
divinities  ; — "  angels  called,  and  angel-like  adored." 
Then  followed  the  age  of  French  gallantry,  tinged 
with  classical  elegance,  and  tainted  with  classical 
license,  when  we  were  caressed,  complimented, 
wooed  and  satirized  by  coxcomb  poets, 

Who  ever  mix'd  their  sorig  with  light  licentious  toys. 

There  was  much  expenditure  of  wit  and  of  talent, 
but  in  an  ill  cause  ; — for  the  feeling  was,  aufond, 
bad  and  false ; — u  et  il  n'est  guere  plaisant  d'etre 
empoisonne,  nieme  par  1'esprit  de  rose." 

In  the  present  time  a  better  spirit  prevails.  We 
are  not  indeed  sublimated  into  goddesses ;  but 
neither  is  it  the  fashion  to  degrade  us  into  the 
playthings  of  fopling  poets.  We  seem  to  have 
found,  at  length,  our  proper  level  in  poetry,  as  in 
society;  and  take  the  place  assigned  to  us  as 
women — 

As  creatures  not  too  bright  or  good, 
For  human  nature's  daily  food; 


504  HEROINES    OF    MODERN    POETRY. 

For  transient  sorrows,  simple  wiles, 

I'raise,  blame,  love,  kisses,  tears,  and  smiles  !* 

We  arc  represented  as  ruling  by  our  feminine 
attractions,  moral  or  exterior,  the  passions  and 
imaginations  of  men  ;  as  claiming,  by  our  weak- 
ness, our  delicacy,  our  devotion, — their  protection, 
their  tenderness,  and  their  gratitude  :  and  since 
the  minds  of  women  have  been  more  generally 
and  highly  cultivated  ;  since  a  Madame  de  Stael,  a 
Joanna  Baillie,  a  Maria  Edgeworth,  and  a  hundred 
other  names,  now  shining  aloft  like  stars,  have  shed 
a  reflected  glory  on  the  whole  sex  they  belong  to, 
we  possess  through  them,  a  claim  to  admiration 
and  respect  for  our  mental  capabilities.  We  assume 
the  right  of  passing  judgment  on  the  poetical 
homage  addressed  to  us,  and  our  smiles  alone  can 
consecrate  what  our  smiles  first  inspired.f 

If  we  look  over  the  mass  of  poetry  produced 
during  the  last  twenty-five  years,  whether  Italian, 
French,  German,  or  English,  we  shall  find  that  the 
predominant  feeling  is  honorable  to  women,  and  if 
not  gallantry,  is  something  better.^  It  is  too  true, 
that  the  incense  has  not  been  always  perfectly 
pure.  "Many  light  lays, —  ah,  wo  is  me  tnere- 

*  Wordsworth. 

t  Even  so  the  smile  of  woman  stamps  our  fates, 

And  consecrates  the  love  it  first  creates  ! 

Barry  Cornwall. 

$  See  in  particular  Schiller's  ode,  "  Honor  to  Women."  one  of 
the  UIOP*,  elegant  tributes  ever  paid  to  us  by  a  poet's  enthusiasm 
It,  may  be  found  translated  in  Lord  F.  Gower's  beautiful  littl» 
Miscellanies. 


HEROINES    OF    MODERN    POETRY.  50fl 

lore  !  "*  have  sounded  from  one  gifted  lyre,  \vhi"K 
hj*s  since  been  strung  to  songs  of  patriotism  and 
tenderness.  Moore,  whom  I  am  proud,  for  a  thou- 
sand reasons,  to  claim  as  my  countryman,  began 
his  literary  and  amatory  career,  fresh  from  the  study 
of  the  classics,  and  the  poets  of  Charles  the  Second's 
time ;  and  too  often  through  the  thin  undress  of 
superficial  refinement,  we  trace  the  grossness  of 
his  models.  It  is  said,  I  know  not  how  truly,  that 
he  has  since  made  the  amende  honorable.  He  has 
possibly'discovered,  that  women  of  sense  and  senti- 
ment, who  have  a  true  feeling  of  what  is  due  to 
them  as  women,  are  not  fitly  addressed  in  the  style 
of  Anacreon  and  Catullus ;  have  no  sympathies 
with  his  equivocal  Rosas,  Fanny,  and  Julias,  and  are 
not  flattered  by  being  associated  with  tavern  orgies 
and  bumpers  of  wine,  and  such  "  tipsy  revelry." 
Into  themes  like  these  he  has,  it  is  true,  infused  a 
buoyant  spirit  of  gayety,  a  tone  of  sentiment,  and 
touches  of  tender  and  moral  feeling,  which' would 
reconcile  us  to  them,  if  any  thing  could  ;  as  in  the 
beautiful  songs,  "  When  time,  who  steals  our  years 
away," — "  O  think  not  my  spirits  are  always  aa 
light," — "  Farewell !  but  whenever  you  think  on 
the  hour,"—"  The  Legacy,"  and  a  hundred  others. 
But  how  many  more  are  there,  in  which  the  parity 

*  Many  light  lays  (ah !  wo  is  me  the  more) 
In  praise  of  that  mad  fit  which  fools  call  love, 
I  have  i'  the  heat  of  youth  made  heretofore. 
That  in  light  wits  did  loose  affections  move ; 
But  all  these  follies  do  I  now  reprove   &c. 

Spenser 


SOb'  HEROINES    OF    MODERN    POETRY. 

and  earnestness  of  the  feeling  vie  with  the  grace 
and  delicacy  of  the  expression  !  and  in  the  difficult 
art  (only  to  be  appreciated  by  a  singer)  of  marry- 
ing verse  to  sound,  Moore  was  never  excelled — 
never  equalled — but  by  Burns.  He  seems  to  be 
gifted,  as  poet  and  musician,  with  a  double  instinct 
of  harmony,  peculiar  to  himself. 

Barry  Cornwall  is  another  living  poet  who  has 
drunk  deep  from  the  classics  and  from  our  elder 
writers  ;  but  with  a  finer  taste  and  a  better  feeling, 
be  has  borrowed  only  what  was  decorative,  graceful 
and  accessory :  the  pure  stream  of  his  sentiment 
flows  unmingled  and  untainted,— 

Yet  musical  as  when  the  waters  run, 
Lapsing  through  sylvan  haunts  deliciously.* 

It  is  not  without  reason  that  Barry  Cornwall  has 
been  styled  the  "  Poet  of  Woman,"  par  excellence. 
It  enhances  the  value,  it  adds  to  the  charm  of  every 
render  and  beautiful  passage  addressed  to  us,  that 
we  know  them  to  be  sincere  and  heartfelt, 

Not  fable  bred, 
But  such  as  truest  poets  love  to  write. 

It  is  for  the  sake  of  one,  beloved  "  beyond 
ambition  and  the  light  of  song," — and  worthy  to  be 
so  loved,  that  he  approaches  all  women  with  the 
most  graceful,  delicate,  and  reverential  homage 
ever  expressed  in  sweet  poetry.  His  fancy  is  in- 

*  Marcian  Colon na. 


HEROINES    OF    MODERN    POETRY.  507 

dc«d  so  luxuriant,  that  he  makes  whatever  he 
touches  appear  fanciful :  but  the  beauty  adorned 
by  his  verse,  and  adorning  his  home,  is  not  imagin- 
ary ;  and  though  he  has  almost  hidden  his  divinity 
behind  a  cloud  of  incense,  she  is  not  therefore  less 
real. 

The  life  Lord  Byron  led  was  not  calculated  to 
give  him  a  good  opinion  of  women,  or  to  place 
before  him  the  best  virtues  of  our  sex.  Of  all 
modern  poets,  he  has  been  the  most  generally  popu- 
Jar  among  female  readers ;  and  he  owes  this  en- 
thusiam  not  certainly  to  our  obligations  to  him; 
for,  as  far  as  women  are  concerned,  we  may  desig- 
nate his  works  by  a  line  borrowed  from  himself, — 

With  much  to  excite,  there's  little  to  exalt. 

But  who,  like  him,  could  administer  to  that 
"  besoin  de  sentir"  which  I  am  afraid  is  an  ingredi- 
ent in  the  feminine  character  all  over  the  world  ? 

Lord  Byron  is  really  the  Grand  Turk  of  amatory 
poetry, — ardent  in  his  love, — mean  and  merciless 
in  his  resentment :  he  could  trace  passion  in 
characters  of  fire,  but  his  caustic  satire  burns  and 
blisters  where  it  falls.  Lovely  as  are  some  of 
his  female  portraits,  and  inimitably  beautiful  as 
are  some  of  his  lyrical  effusions,  it  must  be  con- 
fessed there  is  something  very  Oriental  in  all  his 
feelings  and  ideas  about  women ;  he  seems  to 
require  nothing  of  us  but  beauty  and  submissioa 
Please  him — and  he  will  crown  you  with  the 


508  HEROINES    OF    MODERN    POETRY. 

richest  flowers  of  poetry,  and  heap  the  treasures 
of  the  universe  at  your  feet,  as  trophies  of  his 
love ;  but  once  offend  him,  and  you  are  lost, — 

There  yawns  the  sack — arid  yonder  rolls  the  sea 

Campbell,  ever  elegant  and  tender,  has  hymned 
us  all  into  divinities  and  through  his  sweet  and 
varied  page, 

Where  love  pursues  an  ever  devious  race, 
True  to  the  winding  lineaments  of  grace, 

we  figure  under  every  beautiful  aspect  that  truth 
and  feeling  could  inspire,  or  poetry  depict. 

Sir  Walter  Scott  ought  to  have  lived  in  the  age 
of  chivalry,  (if  we  could  endure  the  thoughts  of  hia 
living  in  any  other  age  but  our  own !)  so  touched 
with  the  true  antique  spirit  of  generous  devotion  to 
our  sex  are  all  his  poetical  portraits  of  women. 
I  do  not  find  that  he  has,  like  most  other  writers  of 
the  present  day,  mixed  up  his  personal  feelings  and 
history  with  his  poetry ;  or  that  any  fair  and  dis- 
tinguished object  will  be  so  thrice  fortunate  as  to 
share  his  laurelled  immortality.  We  must  there 
fore  treat  him  like  Shakspeare,  whom  alone  he 
resembles — and  claim  him  for  us  all. 

Then  there  is  Rogers,  whose  compliments  to  us 
are  so  polished,  so  pointed,  and  so  elegantly  turned, 
and  have  such  a  drawing-room  air,  that  they  seem 
as  if  intended  to  be  presented  to  Duchesses,  by 
Deaux  in  white  kid  gloves.  -And  there  is  Coleridge 


HEKOIXES    OF    MODERN    POETRY.  503 

who  approaches  women  with  a  sort  of  feeling  half 
earthly  half  heavenly,  like  that  with  which  an 
Italian  devotee  bends  before  his  Madonna — 

And  comes  unto  his  courtship  as  his  prayer. 

And  there  is  Southey,  in  whose  imagination  we  are 
all  heroines  and  queens  ;  and  Wordsworth,  lost  in 
the  depths  of  his  own  tenderness  ! 

***** 

The  time  is  not  yet  arrived,  when  the  loves  of 
the  living  poets,  or  of  those  lately  dead,  can  be 
discussed  individually,  or  exhibited  at  full  length. 
The  subject  is  much  too  hazardous  for  a  contempo- 
rary, and  more  particularly  for  a  female  to  dwell 
upon.  Such  details  belong  properly  to  the  next 
age,  and  there  is  no  fear  that  these  gossiping  times 
will  leave  any  thing  a  mystery  for  posterity.  The 
next  generation  will  be  infinitely  wiser  on  these 
interesting  subjects  than  their  grandmothers.  Yet 
a  few  years,  and  what  is  scandal  and  personality 
now,  will  then  be  matter  for  biography  and  history. 
Then  many  a  love,  destined  to  rival  that  of  Pe- 
trarch in  purity  and  celebrity,  and  that  of  Tasso 
in  interest,  shall  be  divulged ;  the  thread  of  many 
a  poetical  romance  now  coiled  up  in  mystic  verse, 
shall  then  be  evolved.  Then  we  shall  know  the 
true  history  of  Lord  Byron's  "  Fare  thee  well.'' 
We  shall  then  know  more  than  the  mere  name  of 
his  Mary,*  who  first  kindled  his  boyish  fancy,  and 

*  Miss  Chaworth,  now  Mrs.  Musters. 


510  HEROINES    OF    MODERN    POETK  F. 

left  an  ineffaceable  impression  on  his  young  heart, 
and  whose  history  is  said  to  be  shadowed  forth  in 
"  The  Dream."  We  may  then  know  who  waa 
the  heroine  of  "  Remember  him  whom  passion's 
power : "  whose  moonlight  charms  at  once  so 
radiant  and  so  shadowy,  inspired  "  She  walks  in 
beauty  ; "  we  shall  be  told,  perhaps,  who  was  the 
Thyrza,  so  loving  and  beloved  in  life,  and  whoso 
early  death,  which  appears  to  have  taken  place 
during  his  travels,  is  so  deeply,  so  feelingly  la- 
mented :  and  who  was  his  Ginevra,*  and  what  spot 
of  earth  was  made  happy  by  her  beautiful  pres- 
ence— if  any  thing  so  divinely  beautiful  ever,  was! 

Then  we  shall  not  ask  in  vain  who  was  Camp- 
bell's Caroline  ?f  Whether  she  did,  indeed,  walk 
this  earth  in  mortal  beauty,  or  was  not  rather 
invoked  by  the  poet's  spell,  from  the  soft  evening 
star  which  shone  upon  her  bower  ? 

Then  we  shall  know  upon  whose  white  bosom 
perished  that  rose,:}:  which,  dying,  bequeathed  with 
its  odorous  breath  a  tale  of  truest  love  to  after- 
times,  and  glory  to  her,  whose  breast  was  its  envied 
tomb — to  her,  whose  heart  has  thrilled  to  the 
homage  of  her  poet, — yet  who  would  "  blush  tof.ua 
it  fame!" 

Then  we  shall  know  who  was  the  "  Lucy/* 

Who  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways, 

Beside  the  springs  of  Dove ;  § 
*-Lord  Byron's  Works,  vol.  Hi.  p.  183,  (small  edii  ) 
t  Campbell's  Poems,  vol.  ii.  p.  202. 
$  Barry  Cornwall's  Poems,  "  Lines  on  a  Rose." 
4  Wordsworth's  Poems,  vol.  i.   p.  181. 


HEROINES    OF   MODERN   POETRY.  511 

»nd  who  was  the  heroine  of  that  most  exquisite 
picture  of  feminine  loveliness  in  all  the  aspects, 
"  She  was  a  Phantom  of  delight."  * — No  phantom, 
it  is  said,  but  a  fair  reality  : 

A  being,  breathing  thoughtful  breath, 
A  traveller  betwixt  life  and  death, 

yet  fated  not  to  die,  while  verse  can  live  ! 

Then  we  shall  know  whose  tear  has  been  pre- 
served by  Rogers  with  a  power  beyond  "  the 
Chemist's  magic  art ; "  who  was  the  lovely  brido 
who  is  destined  to  blush  and  tremble  in  his  Epi- 
thalamium,  for  a  thousand  years  to  come  ;  and  to 
what  fair  obdurate  is  addressed  his  "  Farewell." 

We  may  then  learn  who  was  that  sweet  Mary 
who  adorned  the  cottage-home  of  Wilson;  and 
•who  was  the  "  Wild  Louisa,"  of  whom  he  has 
drawn  such  a  captivating  picture ;  first  as  the 
sprightly  girl  floating  down  the  dance, 

With  footsteps  light  as  falling  snow, 

and  afterwards  as  the  matron  and  the  mother, 
hanging  over  the  cradle  of  her  infant,  and  blessing 
him  in  his  sleep. 

Then  we  may  tell  who  was  the  "  Bonnie  Jean," 
sung  by  Allan  Cunningham,  whose  destructive 
charms  are  so  pleasantly,  so  naturally  touched  upon 

Sair  she  slights  the  lads — 

Three  are  like  to  die ; 

Four  in  sorrow  listed, — 

And  five  flew  to  sea ! 

•  Wordsworth,  vol.  ii.  p.  132. 


5f2  HEROINES    OF    MODERN    POETRY. 

This  rural  beauty,  who  caused  such  terribla 
devastation,  and  who  it  is  said,  first  made  a  poet  of 
her  lover,  became  afterwards  his  wife  ;  and  in  her 
matronly  character,  she  inspired  that  beautiful 
littlo  effusion  of  conjugal  tenderness,  "  The  Poet's 
Bridd.1  Song."  When  first  published,  it  was  almost 
universally  copied,  and  committed  to  memory  ;  and 
Allan  Cunningham  may  not  only  boast  that  he  has 
woven  a  wreath  "  to  grace  his  Jean," 

While  rivers  flow  and  woods  are  green, 

but  that  he  has  given  the  sweet  wife,  seated  among 
her  children  in  sedate  and  matronly  loveliness,  an 
interest  even  beyond  that  which  belongs  to  the 
young  girl  he  has  described  with  raven  locks  and 
cheeks  of  cream,  driving  rustic  admirers  to  despair, 
or  lingering  with  her  lover  at  eve, 

Amid  the  falling  dew, 
When  looks  were  fond,  and  words  were  few ! 

Such  is  the  charm  of  affection,  and  truth,  and 
moral  feeling,  carried  straight  into  the  heart  by 
poetry ! 

What  a  new  interest  and  charm  will  be  given 
to  many  of  Moore's  beautiful  songs,  when  we  are 
allowed  to  trace  the  feeling  that  inspired  them, 
whether  derived  from  some  immediate  and  present 
impression;  or  from  remembered  emotion,  that 
sometimes  swells  in  the  breast,  like  the  heaving  of 
the  waves,  when  the  winds  are  still !  Several  of 


HEROINES   OF   MODERN   POETRY.  513 

the  most  charming  of  his  lyrics  are  said  to  be  in- 
spired  by  "  the  heart  so  warm,  and  eyes  so  bright," 
which  first  taught  him  the  value  of  domestic  happi- 
ness ; — taught  him  that  the  true  poet  need  not  rove 
abroad  for  tnemes  of  song,  but  may  kindle  his 
genius  at  the  flame  which  glows  on  his  own  hearth, 
and  make  the  Muses  his  household  goddesses.* 

Gifford,  the  late  editor  of  the  Quarterly  Review, 
and  the  author  of  the  Baviad  and  Maeviad,  was  in 
early  youth  doomed  to  struggle  with  poverty,  ob- 
scurity, ill-health,  and  every  hardship  which  could 
check  the  rise  of  genius.  He  has  himself  de- 
scribed the  effect  produced  on  his  mind,  under 
these  circumstances,  by  his  attachment  to  an  ami- 
able and  gentle  girl.  "  I  crept  on,"  he  says,  "  in 
silent  discontent,  unfriended  and  unpitied ;  indig- 
nant at  the  present,  careless  of  the  future, — an 
object  at  once  of  apprehension  and  dislike.  From 
this  state  of  abjectness  I  was  raised  by  a  young 
woman  of  my  own  class.  She  was  a  neighbor ; 
and  whenever  I  took  my  solitary  walk  with  my 
Wolfius  in  my  pocket,  she  usually  came  to  the 
door,  and  by  a  smile,  or  a  short  question,  put  in  the 
friendliest  manner,  endeavored  to  solicit  my  at- 
tention. My  heart  had  been  long  shut  to  kind- 
ness ;  but  the  sentiment  was  not  dead  within  me 

*  See  In  Moore's  Lyrics  the  beautiful  song,  "  I'd  mourn  th« 
topes  that  leave  me."    The  concluding  stanza  is  in  point: 
Far  better  hopes  shall  win  me, 

Along  the  path  I've  yet  to  roam, 
The  mind  that  burns  within  me, 
And  pure  smile  from  thee  at  home. 
88 


514  HEROINES   OF   MODERN   POETRY. 

it  revived  at  the  first  encouraging  word ;  and  the 
gratitude  I  felt  for  it,  was  the  first  pleasing  sensa- 
tion I  had  ventured  to  entertain  for  many  dreary 
months." 

There  are  two  little  effusions  inserted  in  the  notes 
to  the  Baviad  and  Masviad,  which  have  since  been 
multiplied  by  copies,  and  have  found  their  way 
into  almost  all  collections  of  lyric  poetry  and 
"  Elegant  Extracts ; "  one  of  these  was  composed 
during  the  life  of  Anna ;  the  other,  written  after 
her  death,  and  beginning, 

I  wish  I  were  where  Anna  lies, 
For  I  am  sick  of  lingering  here, 

is  extremely  striking  from  its  unadorned  simplicity 
and  profound  pathos. — Such  was  not  the  prevailing 
style  of  amatory  verse  at  the  time  it  was  written, 
nearly  fifty  years  ago.  Mr.  Giffbrd  never  married  ; 
and  the  effect  of  this  early  disappointment  could 
be  traced  in  his  mind  and  constitution  to  the  last 
moments  of  his  life. 

The  same  sad  bereavement  which  tended  to 
make  Giffbrd  a  caustic  critic  and  satirist,  made  Mr. 
Bowles  a  sentimental  poet.  The  subject  of  his 
Sonnets  was  real ;  but  he  who  has  pointed  out  the 
difference  between  natural  and  fabricated  feeling, 
should  not  have  left  a  Hank  for  the  name  of  her  he 
laments.  He  gives  us  indeed  a  formal  permission 
to  fill  up  the  blank  with  any  name  we  choose. 
But  it  is  not  the  same  thing ;  the  name  of  the 


HEROINES   OF   MODERN   POETRY.  515 

woman  who  inspired  a  poet,  is  quite  as  important 
to  posterity,  as  the  name  of  the  poet  himself. 

'Who  was  the  Hannah,  whose  fickleness  occa- 
sioned that  exquisite  little  poem  which  Montgomery 
has  inscribed  "  To  the  memory  of  her  who  is  dead 
to  me  ?  "  It  tells  a  tale  of  youthful  love,  of  trust- 
ing affection,  suddenly  and  eternally  blighted, — 
and  with  such  a  brevity,  such  a  simplicity,  such  a 
fervent  yet  heart-broken  earnestness,  tliat  T  fear  it 
must  be  true  ! 

At  some  future  time,  we  shall,  perhaps,  be  told 
who  was  the  beautiful  English  girl,  whose  retiring 
charms  won  the  heart  of  Hyppolito  Pmdemonte 
when  he  was  here  some  years  ago.  His?  Canzone 
on  her  is,  in  Italy,  considered  as  his  masterpiece,* 
and  even  compared  to  some  of  Petrarch's.  There 
are  indeed  few  things  in  the  compass  of  Italian 
poetry  more  sweet  in  expression,  more  true  to  feel- 
ing, than  the  lines  in  which  Pindemonte,  describing 
the  blooming  youth,  the  serene  and  quiet  grace  of 
this  fair  girl,  disclaims  the  idea  of  even  wishing  to 
disturb  the  heavenly  calm  of  her  pure  heart  by  a 
passion  such  as  agitates  his  own. 

n  men  di  che  pub  Donna  esser  cortese 
Ver  chi  1'  ha  di  s6  stesso  assai  piu  cara, 
Da  te,  vergine  pura,  io  non  vorrei. 

This  was  being  very  peculiarly  disinterested.-— 
We  may  also  learn,  at  some  future  time,  who  was 

*  See  hi  the  "  Opere  di  Pindemonte,"  the  Canzone, "  0  Giovan. 
•tta  che  la  dubbia  via." 


ft!6  HEROINES    OF   MODERN    POETRY. 

the  sweet  Elvire,  to  whom  Alphonse  de  Lamartimj 
has  promised  immortality,  and  not  promised  more 
than  he  has  the  power  to  bestow.  He  is  one  of  the 
few  French  poets,  who  have  created  a  real  and  a 
strong  interest  out  of  their  own  country.  He  has 
vanquished,  by  the  mere  force  of  genius  and  senti- 
ment, all  the  difficulties  and  deficiencies  of  the 
language  in  which  he  wrote,  and  has  given  to  its 
limited  poetical  vocabulary  a  charm  unknown 
before.  He  thus  addresses  Elvire  in  one  of  the 
Meditations  Poetiques. 

Vois,  d'un  ceil  de  pitie*,  la  vulgaire  jeunesse 
Brillante  debeaute",  s'enivrant  de  plaisir; 
Quand  elle  aura  tari  sa  coupe  enchanteresse, 
Que  restera-t-il  d'elle?  a  peinenn  souvenir: 
Le  tombeau  qui  1'attend  1'engloutit  toute  entiere, 
Tin  silence  Eternal  succede  a  ses  amours; 
Mais  les  si6cles  auront  passe*  sur  ta  poussiere, 
Elvire ! — et  tu  vivras  toujours ! 

***** 

Over  some  of  the  heroines  of  modern  poetry, 
the  tomb  has  recently  closed ;  and  the  flowers 
scattered  there  could  not  be  disturbed  without 
awakening  a  pang  in  the  bosoms  of  those  who  sur- 
vive. They  sleep,  but  only  for  a  while :  they  shall 
rise  again — the  grave  shall  yield  them  up,  "  even 
in  the  loveliest  looks  they  wore,"  for  a  poet's  love 
has  redeemed  them  from  death  and  from  oblivion 
Methinks  I  see  them  even  now  with  the  prophetic 
eye  of  fancy,  go  floating  over  the  ocean  of  time,  in 
the  light  of  their  beauty  and  their  fame,  like  Galatea 
and  her  nymphs  triumphing  upon  the  waters  I 


HEROINES   OF   MODERN   POETivY. 

Others,  perhaps,  (the  widow  of  Burns,  and 
widow  of  Monti,  for  instance,)  are  declining  into 
wintry  age:  sorrow  and  thought  have  quenched 
the  native  beauty  on  their  cheek,  and  furrowed  the 
once  polished  brow  ;  yet  crowned  by  poetry  with 
eternal  youth  and  unfading  charms,  they  will  go 
down  to  posterity  among  the  Lauras,  the  Geral- 
dines,  the  Sacharissas  of  other  days  ; — Nature  her- 
self shall  feel  decrepitude, 

And,  palsy-smitten,  shake  her  starry  brow, 

ere  these  grow  old  and  die  ! 

And  some,  even  now,  move  gracefully  through 
the  shades  of  domestic  life,  and  the  universe,  of 
whose  beauty  they  will  ere  long  form  a  part, 
knows  them  not.  Undistinguished  among  the 
ephemeral  divinities  around  them,  not  looking  as 
though  they  felt  the  future  glory  round  their  brow, 
nor  swelling  with  anticipated  fame,  they  yet  carry 
in  their  mild  eyes,  that  light  of  love,  which  has 
inspired  undying  strains. 

And  Queens  hereafter  shall  be  proud  to  livo 
Upon  the  alms  of  their  superfluous  praise  I 


THE   END. 


C031flD7MD3 


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